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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