Oh Who Is That Young Sinner Oh who is that young sinner with the handcuffs on his wrists? And what has he been after that they groan and shake their fists? And wherefore is he wearing such a conscience-stricken air? Oh theyre taking him to prison for the colour of his hair. Tis a shame to human nature, such a head of hair as his; In the good old time twas hanging for the colour that it is; Though hanging isnt bad enough and flaying would be fair For the nameless and abominable colour of his hair. Oh a deal of pains hes taken and a pretty price hes paid To hide his poll or dye it of a mentionable shade; But theyve pulled the beggars hat off for the world to see and stare, And theyre haling him to justice for the colour of his hair. Now tis oakum for his fingers and the treadmill for his feet And the quarry-gang on Portland in the cold and in the heat, And between his spells of labour in the time he has to spare He can curse the God that made him for the colour of his hair. A.E. Housman
Posted on: Sun, 03 Nov 2013 15:31:17 +0000
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