THE WANDERING BOY.

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.