Classic Poem

My man fell in, when he was drunk;
They'd thrown him out o' the “King's Head.”
From Wapping stairs he fell, and sunk.
He was my man; he's dead.

On the cold slab, a sight to see,
They've laid him out—poor handsome chap—
In Rotherhithe's new mortuary.
His head should dent my lap.

But I mayn't warm him where he lies,
Because I have no ring to show—
Yet I've his bruises on my eyes;
And bore his child a month ago.