The Orphan Child

As I went down through London town, 
The sun an hour had shone, 
And there I saw a bonnie boy,
Sit singing on a stone: 
But sooty were his shining locks, 
And dark his snowy feet. 
And bleeding were his tender hands, 
And O, his voice was sweet! 
A lady came and look'd and sigh'd,
And ceased to pass along, 
'My blessings on this comely child,
He sings a melting song.'

'O white, white, lady, is thy neck,
Where gold and jewels shine; 
My arms have clasp'd as white a neck,
As kind a breast as thine. 
A mother's hands have gently nursed
Me on a gentle knee; — 
And oft I weep above her grave,
Aneath the churchyard tree. 
The sea-waves o'er my father roll, 
Full fifty fathom deep.' 
He ceased his song, that orphan boy, 
And loudly 'gan to weep. 

That lady's silken dress was shower'd 
All round with jewels rare; 
Ye might have bought a baron's land 
With diamonds from her hair; 
The red gold glitter'd round her waist,
And sparkled at her feet,
Ten thousand eyes her beauty bless'd
As she walk'd down the street.
Though like sun-light her beauty shone 
From green earth to the sky, 
Curse on the Muse who names a name
That heeds not sorrow's cry. 

That lady went, — the orphan child 
Sat still on the cold stone; 
He look'd in no one's face, he sung, —
'Twas less of song than moan. 
And lo! another lady came,
Straight to that comely child; 
She took his dusky hand, her eyes
More than her ripe lips smiled: 
'Come tell me now, my pretty youth,
A tender mother's care
How could ye leave, all thus to stain 
Thy face and shining hair?' 

'My father's dead,' thus said the child,
'O'er him the salt sea sweeps; 
My mother broke her heart; — Oh! come
And see how low she sleeps!
For often I go to her grave, 
And lie the cold night long; 
I could not do't, but that I keep
My heart up with my song. 
O, ere the green turf o'er her closed,
Ere her sweet lips were cold,
That bless'd me, to this cruel trade 
Her only son was sold.' 

That lady turned away, — she turn'd 
But went not; like the dew
On lilies, 'tween her fingers white
The shining tears dropt through. 
She stroked his sooty locks, and smiled,
While o'er the dusky boy, 
As streams the sunbeam through a cloud
There came a flush of joy. 
She took him from his cruel trade,
And soon the milk-white hue 
Came to his neck: he, with the Muse,
Sings 'Bless thee, Montagu!'