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Rh 

Oh say, what is that thing call'd light, Which I must ne'er enjoy? What are the blessings of the sight? Oh, tell a poor blind boy.

You talk of wondrous things you see. You say the sun shines bright; I feel him warm, but how can he Or make it day or night?

My day or night myself I make, Whene'er I sleep or play; And could I always keep awake, With me 'twere always day.

Then let not what I cannot have My cheer of mind destroy; While thus I sing I am a king, Although a poor blind boy.

 

flutt'rer, swiftly flying, There is none to harm thee near: Kite not hawk nor schoolboy prying, Little flutt'rer, cease to fear. One who would protect thee ever From the schoolboy, kite, or hawk, Musing now comes near, but never Dreamt of plunder in his walk. 