THE WANDERING BOY.

By Henry Kirk White

When the winter wind whistles along the wild moor,

And the cottager shuts on the beggar his door;

When the chilling tear stands in my comfortless eye,

Oh, how hard is the lot of the Wandering Boy.

The winter is cold, and I have no vest,

And my heart it is cold as it beats in my breast;

No father, no mother, no kindred have I,

For I am a parentless Wandering Boy.

Yet I had a home, and I once had a sire,

A mother who granted each infant desire;

Our cottage it stood in a wood-embower'd vale,

Where the ringdove would warble its sorrowful tale.

But my father and mother were summoned away,

And they left me to hard-hearted strangers a prey;

I fled from their rigour with many a sigh,

And now I'm a poor little Wandering Boy.

The wind it is keen, and the snow loads the gale,

And no one will list to my innocent tale;

I'll go to the grave where my parents both lie,

And death shall befriend the poor Wandering Boy.