The Orphan Child


The sun, the shower, the clouds, the air,
Seem sweet unto the Orphan Child
As to the rich mans heir.
Poor lonely thing the blossoms wild,
Its little dirty fingers pull
With self delight, 'though none is nigh
To praise and cherish what it shews
To strangers passing by


Yet its young heart and its dull eye
That meets no kindred's kindly smile
Can look upon the sunny sky
And please itself the while
And chase the butterflies, and bees, —
And pull the blossoms wild,
For rich man's boys are pleased with these
So is the Orphan Child.


The daiseys in springs sunny hour
It pulls upon the trodden green
For gardens, or a garden flower
Its eyes have never seen
It calls the daiseys all its own
Before the workhouse door
And goes and plants them where they've grown
In places on the moor —


It is a thing of silent joys
A thing of silent fears
It weeps to hear that moaning noise
When its sisters grief it hears
It shares the blessings of the sky
Some pleasures of the spring
When merry bee and butterfly
Will please that lonely thing.
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