The Little Cripple's Complaint

I'm a helpless cripple child,

 Gentle Christians, pity me;

Once, in rosy health I smiled,

 Blithe and gay as you can be,

And upon the village green

First in every sport was seen.

Now, alas! I'm weak and low,

 Cannot either work or play;

Tottering on my crutches, slow,

 Thus I drag my weary way:

Now no longer dance and sing,

Gaily, in the merry ring.

Many sleepless nights I live,

 Turning on my weary bed;

Softest pillows cannot give

 Slumber to my aching head;

Constant anguish makes it fly

From my heavy, wakeful eye.

And, when morning beams return,

 Still no comfort beams for me:

Still my limbs with fever burn,

 Painful still my crippled knee.

And another tedious day

Passes slow and sad away.

From my chamber-window high,

 Lifted to my easy-chair,

I the village-green can spy,

 Once I used to frolic there,

March, or beat my new-bought drum;

Happy times! no more to come.

There I see my fellows gay,

 Sporting on the daisied turf,

And, amidst their cheerful play,

 Stopp'd by many a merry laugh;

But the sight I scarce can bear,

Leaning in my easy-chair.

Let not then the scoffing eye

 Laugh, my twisted leg to see:

Gentle Christians, passing by,

 Stop awhile, and pity me,

And for you I'll breathe a prayer,

Leaning in my easy-chair.