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7
When I, an outcast from my birth,
Sprung up the humblest flower on earth,
No parent stalk to prop its form,
No shelter from the winter's storm—
Such was the fate, bereft of joy,
Of Theodore, the orphan boy.
Sprung up the humblest flower on earth,
No parent stalk to prop its form,
No shelter from the winter's storm—
Such was the fate, bereft of joy,
Of Theodore, the orphan boy.
'Twas your dear hand, by pity led,
First rais'd the lily's drooping head,
Foster'd the bud bedew'd with tears,
Then saw it blossom into years:
And whilst your smiles such pow'r can give,
Still will it flourish, bloom, and live;
Ah! do not then the hopes destroy
Of Theodore, the orphan boy.
First rais'd the lily's drooping head,
Foster'd the bud bedew'd with tears,
Then saw it blossom into years:
And whilst your smiles such pow'r can give,
Still will it flourish, bloom, and live;
Ah! do not then the hopes destroy
Of Theodore, the orphan boy.
THE MAID OF LODI.
I sing the maid of Lodi,
Who sweetly sung to me,
Whose brows were never cloudy,
Nor e'er distort with glee.
She values not the wealthy,
Unless they're great and good,
For she is strong and healthy,
And by labour earns her food.
Who sweetly sung to me,
Whose brows were never cloudy,
Nor e'er distort with glee.
She values not the wealthy,
Unless they're great and good,
For she is strong and healthy,
And by labour earns her food.
And when her day's work's over;
Around a cheerful fire,
Around a cheerful fire,
