IN FRENCH FIELDS.
17
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.
C
