A Beggar Girl's Song

O listen to a Beggar's pray'r!
Lady, I'm hungry ill and cold—
Yet more than half my gains must spare,
To feed the helpless, and the old,
If I were rich I'd love the poor,
Lady, don't turn me from your door.

On a sick bed my Mother lies,
My infant Sister screams for food,
O how you'd start to hear her cries
They'd pierce your Soul
They'd chill your blood,
'Tis hard to be so very poor,
O! do not turn me from your door.

I was not born to beg—ah no!
But troubles Lady come to all,
To day we're high tomorrow low
E'en you misfortunes may befall,
Tho' wealthy now you may be poor
Then do not turn me from your door.

How! do you call my mis'ry art?
And must I hence unpitied go?
Nay frown not Lady I'll depart
In the next world 'twill not be so,
For Heav'en will hear the suff'ring poor,
Lady! don't chide—I'll leave your door.