I LIV'D in an old house, you ne'er saw one older,
The wind whistled loud when the winter set in;
But I don't see why whistling need make the place colder,
Nor why in not stopping cracks there should be sin.
Ah! poor little thing, dear little thing,--
I've griev'd like a child since I heard that bell ring.

Well, Sir, my old house had two rooms on a floor;
With one window, pray why should I pay to have more?
And as to the water between the bricks welling,
Folks may talk,but I'll never do things for their telling!
Why, yes, the bad air in those two rooms, I own,
Was enough, I was told, to knock any man down;
But Lord, Sir! I've liv'd and am now forty-six,
And the saw says you'll scarce teach an old dog new tricks.
I dirty? Indeed, Sir, you 're quite wrong I know;
None cleaner in Hastings; and if folks say so,
'Tis because we're like cats, Sir, and can't abide water,
All our family, Sir, and wife's brother, Tim Carter.
Ah! poor little thing, dear little thing,--
How Tim did take on when he heard that bell ring!

I had one little daughter, Sir, fresh as a daisy,
She made our old house joyful tho' it was crazy;
My darling! a bit of red tipp'd her soft cheek,
She could just run to school on her wee toddling feet.
Then came the hot season, no breath of air stirr'd,
The roil of the sea was the only sound heard,
And down on the beach it was worse than elsewhere,
The Devil of Fever seem'd riding the air.
Ah! poor little thing, dear little thing,--
I dreamt his long thin fingers made that bell ring

I do not know why, Sir, indeed I can't tell,
Why the young ones about us did not die as well;
'Tis nonsense to talk about houses, say I,
I like my old house, tho' they call it a sty.
So the fever came on, and it touch'd here and there,
In the strangest chance way that you ever did hear;
They did say the deaths might be summ'd with bad drains,--
If you think I think that, you're a fool for your pains;
But my poor little thing, my dear little thing,--
I scarce know what I think since I heard that bell ring!

So the fever came on, Sir; my wife, stricken down,
(As knowing a soul, Sir, as lives in the town,--
None of your newfangled cranks about her),
Will never be well in this world, Sir, I fear;
And poor little Polly, Sir, all the long day
Lay tossing in agony, moaning away;
Her bright hair was matted with fever, and dull,
It lay on my arm, Sir, who prided each curl;
Towards night, Sir, her pretty blue eyes became dim,
But her little parch'd lips still kept muttering a hymn

She had learnt at the school, or some queer notion bred
Of the hot fever poison would run in her head.
Ah! poor little thing, dear little thing,--
She died like one mad, and I heard the bell ring.

Indeed, Sir, tho' she was my darling and pride,
I was thankful at heart when my poor Polly died.
We buried her, Sir, safe at rest from her pain;--
And I, Sir?--Went back to my Old House again!