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 Where the pinch’d face against the glass Might watch him fling down gold For a few flowers, that all would be Dust ere the week was old.

Then turned the beggar to the cur That shivering by him stood: “Ay, Mick! yon lad has gold for flowers; We haven’t pence for food!”

But ah! those instant-lifted eyes, How loving, patient, true! Till Love in those down-cast cried out “Right, friend! I have got you!”

—He of the rare load, coming home, Upon a cold still bed Cast it, with tears. He, too, had had One friend. She lay there, dead.