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Soldiers & sailors

Little sailor boy

74891772.htm

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               THE

 LITTLE SAILOR BOY.

The bitter wind blew keen and cold,
The rain fast down did pour,
When a sailor boy from shipwreck sav'd,
In the night was washed on our shore.
At our cottage down in the vale,
Where all was peace and joy,
Take pity strangers within on me,
Cried the poor little Sailor Boy.

Three days and nights now are past,
Since I was washed on your shore ;
I am naked almost, exposed to the blast,
Only hark how the wind it does roar :
If pity dwells within your breast,
My last hopes pray don't destroy,
But shelter give, or else I die,
Cried the poor little Sailor Boy.

My mother she lives for, from here,
My father, alas ! he is no more,
He perish'd that night,' in the dreadful gale,
When I wash'd on your shore.
Don't turn me from your door, I pray,
My last hope pray don't destroy ;
But shelter give, and let me rest,
Cried the poor little Sailor Boy.

My father he opened our cottage door,
Come in, child of sorrow, he cry'd,
And mother who always feels for the poor,
Put him close to our cot fireside.
When reviv'd he told the dangers of sea,
While tears down his cheeks ran with joy,
May heaven reward you strangers for me,
Cried the poor little Sailor Boy.

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THE BEGGAR BOY.

What ills my infant days await,
In vain I mourn my wretched fate;
My friends, alas, they are dead,
And I'm obliged to beg my bread.
Oh, pity then the Beggar Boy,
What gentle soul can e'er deny
Relief to a poor Beggar Boy.

In winter time thro' frost and snow,
Half naked I am forced to go ,
No friendly place to lay my head,
Thro' chilling blasts I beg my bread :
Ob, pity then the Beggar Boy,
May you ne'er feel such pangs as I,
Who gives the little Beggar Boy.

Ah, me, how blest the time will be
When I'm reliev'd from misery ;
Death's frightful form I shall not dread,
So I no longer beg my bread.
Oh, pity then the Beggar Boy;
There is one who lives on high
Will take the little Beggar Boy.

How many are there blest with health
Securely living on their wealth;
Whilst I, alas, unheeded tread
The paths of want to beg my bread.
Oh, pity then the Beggar Boy,
With pleasure may his moments fly
Who gives the little Beggar Boy.

G. Walker, Jun., Printer, Durham.

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