The Orphan Boy

The Orphan Boy

ALAS! I am an Orphan Boy,

With nought on earth to cheer my heart;

No father's love, no mother's joy,

No kin nor kind to take my part.

My lodging is the cold, cold ground,

I eat the bread of charity;

And when the kiss of loves goes round,

There is no kiss, alas for me.

Yet once I have a father dear,

A mother too, I wont to prize;

With ready hand to wipe the tear,

If chanc'd the transient tear to rise.

But cause of tears was rarely found,

For all my heart was youthful glee,

And when the kiss of love went round,

How sweet a kiss there was for me.

But ah! there came a war they say,

What is a war? - I cannot tell:

The drums and fifes did sweetly play,

And loudly rang our village bell.

In truth it was a pretty sound

I thought,- nor could I thence forsee,

That when the kiss of love went round,

There soon would be no kiss for me.

A scarlet coat my father took,

And sword as bright as bright could be,

And feathers that so gaily look,

All in a shining cap had he.

Then how my little heard did bound,

Alas! I thought it fine to see -

Nor dreamt, that when the kiss went round,

There soon should be no kiss for me.

At length the bell again did ring,

There was a victory they said;

'Twas what my father said he'd bring,

But, ah! it brought my father dead.

My mother shrieked, her heart was woe.

She clasp'd me to her trembling knee:

O God! O God! that you may never know,

How wild a kiss she gave me!

But once again, - but once again,

These lips a mother's kisses felt,

That once again, - that once again,

That tale a hear of stone would melt.

'Twas when upon her death-bed laid,

(O God! that sight to see,)

"My child, my child," she feebly said,

And gave a parting kiss to me.

So now I am an Orphan Boy,

With nought below my heart to cheer;

No mother's love, no father's joy,

No kin nor kind to wipe the tear.

My lodging is the cold, cold ground,

I eat the bread of charity;

And when the kiss of loves goes round,

There is, alas, no kiss for me.

WHEN we speak of simplicity, it were injustice to the manes of the unknown bard, not to introduce to notice a piece of former times, the author of which has sailed down the current of oblivion, but which it will be his merit in any publication to be the medium of restoring European Magazine.

2:12, p. 48

1838.04.12