The Beggar Boy

When the wind blows loud and fearful,
And the rain is pouring fast,
And the cottage matron careful
Shuts her door against the blast;

When lone mothers as they hearken,
Think of sailor sons at sea,
And the eve begins to darken,
While the clocks are striking three;

When the pavement echoes only
Now and then to passing feet;
Still the beggar boy goes lonely,
Up and down the empty street.

On his brow the wet hair bristles,
And his feet are blue with cold,
And the wind at pleasure whistles
Through his garments torn and old.

You can hear the plaint he utters,
Standing dripping at your door,
Through the splashing in the gutters,
When the wind has lulled its roar.

Little children playing gladly,
In the parlour bright and warm,
Look out kindly, look out sadly
On the beggar in the storm.

Speak ye softly to each other,
Standing by the window pane;
‘Had he father, had he mother,
Would they leave him in the rain?

‘In our home is peace and pleasure,
We are loved and cared about,
We must give from our full measure,
To the wanderer without.’

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