When my mother died I was very young
And my father sold me while yet my tongue
Could scarcely cry ‘Weep! weep! weep! weep!’
So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep

There’s little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head
That curled like a lamb’s back, was shaved; so I said
‘Hush, Tom! never mind it, for, when your head’s bare
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.’

And so he was quiet, and that very night
As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight!—
That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack
Were all of them locked up in coffins of black

And by came an angel, who had a bright key
And hе opened the coffins, and sеt them all free;
Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing, they run
And wash in a river, and shine in the sun

Then naked and white, all their bags left behind
They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind:
And the angel told Tom, if he’d be a good boy
He’d have God for his father, and never want joy

And so Tom awoke, and we rose in the dark
And got with our bags and our brushes to work
Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm:
So, if all do their duty, they need not fear harm