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 The winter is cold and I have no place of rest, ! My heart is so cold that it beats in my breast, No father, no mother, no kindre I have I, For I am the poor little, Wandering Boy.

I once had a home, I once had a sire, A mother who granted each infant desire, Our cottage it stood embower'd in a vale, Where the ring-dove it warbled its sorrowful tale.

But my father and mother were summon'd away, They left me to hard-hearted-strangers a prey, I fled from their rigour with many a sigh, But now I am left a poor Wandering Boy.

The winter is cold, and the snow loads the gale, There is no one will listen to my innocent tale, I will go to the grave where my parents do lie, And death shall befriend the poor Wandering Boy.

FINIS.