A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/My Vocation (Béranger)
MY VOCATION.
A waif on this earth,
Sick, ugly, and small,
Contemned from my birth
And rejected by all.
From my lips broke a cry,
Such as anguish may wring,
Sing,—said God in reply,
Chant, poor little thing.
By Wealth's coach besmeared
With dirt in a shower,
Insulted and jeered
By the minions of power,
Where—oh where shall I fly?
Who comfort will bring?
Sing—said God in reply,
Chant, poor little thing.
Life struck me with fright—
Full of chances and pain,
So I hugged with delight
The drudge's hard chain;
One must eat,—yet I die,
Like a bird with clipped wing,
Sing—said God in reply,
Chant, poor little thing.
Love cheered for a while
My morn with his ray,
But like a ripple or smile
My youth passed away.
Now near Beauty I sigh,
But fled is the spring!
Sing—said God in reply,
Chant, poor little thing.
All men have a task,
And to sing is my lot—
No meed from men I ask
But one kindly thought.
My vocation is high—
'Mid the glasses that ring,
Still—still comes that reply,
Chant, poor little thing.