Prim Rose

In tatter'd weed, from town to town, Is hapless Primrose doom'd to stray; Compell'd a wretch, a wanderer known, To seek a home from day to day. Barefoot as she strolls forlorn, O'er the flint or pointed thorn, Silent must her sorrows be, Her madrigal—Sweet Charity. At evening will the village kind, In raptures listen to her song; And buy her joy, in hopes to find, What future joys to him belong. Barefoot as she strolls, &c.