Oh who is that young
who is that
young sinner with the handcuffs on his wrists?
what has he
been after that they groan and shake their fists?
he wearing such a conscience-stricken air?
taking him to prison for the colour of his hair
a shame to
human nature, such a head of hair as his;
the good old
time 'twas hanging for the colour that it is;
isn't bad enough and flaying would be fair
and abominable colour of his hair
a deal of
pains he's taken and a pretty price he's paid
hide his poll
or dye it of a mentionable shade;
pulled the beggar's hat off for the world to see and stare,
taking him to justice for the colour of his hair.
for his fingers and the treadmill for his feet,
quarry-gang on Portland in the cold and in the heat,
spells of labour in the time he has to spare
can curse the
God that made him for the colour of his hair.
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