The Blind boy
O say what is that thing call’d light,
Which I must ne’er enjoy.
What are the blessings of sight,
O tell your poor blind boy.
You talk of wondrous things you see,
You say the sun shines bright;
I feel him warm, but how can
Or make it day or night?
My day or night myself I make,
When’ver I sleep or play;
And could I ever keep awake
With me ‘twere always day.
With heavy sighs I often hear
You mourn my hapless woe;
But sure with patience I can bear
A loss I ne’er can know.
Then let not what I cannot have
My cheer of mind destroy
Whilst thus I sing, I am a king,
Although a poor blind boy.
