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The winter is cold and I have no place of rest, !
My heart is so cold that it beats in my breast,
No father, no mother, no kindre I have I,
For I am the poor little, Wandering Boy.
I once had a home, I once had a sire,
A mother who granted each infant desire,
Our cottage it stood embower'd in a vale,
Where the ring-dove it warbled its sorrowful tale.
But my father and mother were summon'd away,
They left me to hard-hearted-strangers a prey,
I fled from their rigour with many a sigh,
But now I am left a poor Wandering Boy.
The winter is cold, and the snow loads the gale,
There is no one will listen to my innocent tale,
I will go to the grave where my parents do lie,
And death shall befriend the poor Wandering Boy.
FINIS.
