Classic Poem

He tapped his bottom dollar, Joe,
When that poor barefoot child
Came moaning through the drifted snow,
With cold and hunger wild;
Tom Biggs himself is old and poor
And has a cough, you know,
But when he saw that wretched girl;
He tapped his bottom dollar, Joe—
Tom tapped his bottom dollar!

I don't believe he'll miss it, Joe,
In that last, solemn rest
To which he's hurrying so fast,—
He's shaky, at the best;
I rather think the records there
That very coin will show,
And God himself will keep the count
Of Biggs' bottom dollar, Joe—
Tom Biggs' bottom dollar!