A soot-blackened child stands in the snow, calling out "weep! weep!" — a child's way of saying "sweep," but also an honest cry of sorrow. A passerby asks where his parents are, and the boy answers with bitterness: they’ve gone to church. He remembers being happy on the heath, but his parents sold him into chimney sweeping, clothed him in death, and taught him to sing woeful notes. Now, because he dances and sings, they think they’ve done no harm and go to praise God, priest, and king, who "make up a heaven of our misery."
The mood is cold and accusatory. The speaker feels utterly abandoned, seeing religion as a mask for the adults’ exploitation. There is no comfort here, only a child’s piercing realization that those who should protect him are complicit in his suffering. The image of a tiny black figure against the snow is stark, and his song, meant to advertise his labor, turns into a bitter condemnation. His singing and dancing, once innocent, are now twisted into a tool that lets the powerful pretend all is well. The church, meant to offer solace, simply echoes the hypocrisy.