The Match Boy

Ye wealthy and proud, while in splender ye roll,
Behold a poor orphan, pale and hungry and wan,
And learn, tho? now doomed to misfortune?s control,
He springs like yourself, from the fountain of man;
So scanty the fruit of his humble employ,
Dejected he roams in a sad ragged plight,
Then O, give a mite to a poor little boy,
Who cries buy my matched, from morning till night,

Remember, tho? luxury cloys you by day,
And pampers you nightly on pillows of down,
Adversity soon, may plant thorns in your way,
Obscuring your pleasures with poverty?d frown;
While Apathy?d flint and cold steel you employ,
The tinder of feeling you never can light;
Nor ne?er give a mite to the poor little boy,
Who cries, buy my matches, from morning till night.

And you, ye proud fair, of this once happy land,
With beauties external so gifted by fate;
Whose smiled can enrapture, whose frowns can command,
Prove also your mental endowment, are great:
The crumbs of your tables, which lap-dogs destroy,
Might comfort our orphan, and yield him delight;
Then O, give a mite to a poor little boy,
Who cries, buy my matches, from morning till night.