A Heathen

I am a heathen poor and blind,

I have no cultured, polished mind,

In me no talents rare you'll find,

Only a poor heathen.

My way is dark, I cannot see,

No beacon light shines out for me,

It must beneath some bushes be,

O who will help the heathen?

I wander thro' the earth alone,

By no one sought, by no one known,

No tender deeds to me are shown,

No one can love a heathen.

Wherever I should chance to be,

The Christians always point at me,

And say a heathen man is he,

A poor benighted heathen.

My hands are neither deft nor skilled.

My mind has not been trained and drilled,

And with rich stores of nonsense filled,

A poor unlearned heathen.

I do not know that art so great,

Of showing as I glibly prate,

The contents of my hollow pate,

O pity the poor heathen.

I think that I shall go to school,

And learn to be a learned fool,

At least know as much as a mule,

And be no more a heathen.

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