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Rh Not my fields in the prime of the year More charms than my cattle unfold; Not a brook that is limpid and clear, But it glitters with fishes of gold.

 

the mountains and over the moor, Hungry and thirsty, I wander forlorn; My father is dead and my mother is poor, And she grieves for the days that will never return. Pity, kind gentle folk, friends of humanity, Cold blows the wind and the night's coming on; Give me some food for my mother in charity, Give me some food, and I then will be gone.

Call me not lazy bones, beggar, and bold enough, Fain would I learn both to knit and to sew; I've two little brothers at home, when they're old enough They will work hard for the gifts you bestow. Pity, kind gentlefolk, &c.

Think while you revel so careless and free, And are safe from the wind, and well clothed and fed, Should fortune so change it, how hard it would be To beg at a door for a morsel of bread. Pity, kind gentlefolk, &c.

