The Match Boy

Ye wealthy and proud, while in splendor ye roll, Behold a poor orphan, pale, hungry and wan; And learn, tho' now doom'd to misfortune's control, He springs like yourselves from the fountain of man; So scanty the fruits of his humble employ, Dejected he roams in a sad ragged plight; Then O! give a mite to the poor little boy, Who cries "Buy my matches," from morning to night.

Remember, tho' luxury clogs you by day, And pampers you nightly on pillows of down, Adversity soon may plant thorns in your way, Obscuring your pleasures with poverty's frown. While apathy's flint and cold steel you employ. The tinder of feeling you never can light, Nor e'er give a mite to the poor little boy, Who cries "buy my matches," from morning to night

And you, ye proud fair, of this ocean-girt land, With beauty external so gisted by sate, Whose smiles can enrapture, whose frowns can command, Prove also your mental endowments are great. The crumbs of your table, which lap-dogs destroy, Might comfort our orphan, and yield him delight; O then give a mite to a poor little boy, Who cries "buy my matcher," from morning to night.