The Sale of the Pet Lamb of the Cottage

Oh! poverty is a weary thing, ’tis full of grief and pain, It boweth down the heart of man, and dulls his cunning brain, It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain!

The children of the rich man have not their bread to win: They hardly know how labour is the penalty of sin; Even as the lilies of the field, they neither toil nor spin.

And year by year, as life wears on, no wants have they to bear; In all the luxury of the earth they have abundant share; They walk among life’s pleasant ways, and never know a care.

The children of the poor man—though they be young, each one, Early in the morning they rise up before the rising sun, And scarcely when the sun is set, their daily task is done.

Few things have they to call their own, to fill their hearts with pride,— The sunshine of the summer’s day, the flowers on the highway side, Or their own free companionship, on the heathy common wide.

Hunger, and cold, and weariness, these are a frightful three; But another curse there is beside, that darkens poverty:— It may not have one thing to love, how small soe’er it be.