Page:Child of a tar.pdf/2



a little blue garment, all ragged and torn
 * With scarce any shoes to his feet,

His head quite uncover'd, a look quite forlorn,
 * And a cold stony step for his seat;

A boy cheerless sat and as passengers pass
 * With a voice that might avarice bar.

Have pity, he cry'd, let your bounty be cast
 * To a poor little child of a Tar.

No mother I have, no friend can I claim,
 * Deserted and cheerless I roam;

My father had fought for his country and fame,
 * But, alas! he may never come home

Pinch d by cold and by hunger, now haples my fate,
 * Distress must all happiness mar;

Look down on my sorrows and pity the fate
 * Of a poor little child of a Tar.

By cruelty drove from a neat rural cot,
 * Where once with contentment he dwelt;

No friend to protect us, my poor mother's lot,