Is this a holy thing to see
In a rich and fruitful land-
Babes reduc'd to misery,
Fed with cold and unurous hand?

Is that trembling cry a song?
Can it be a song of joy?
And so many children poor?
It is a land of poverty!

And their sun does never shine, 
And their fields are bleak and bare,
And their ways are filled with thorns;
It is eternal winter there.

For where-e'er the does shie,
And where-e'er the rain does fall,
Babe can never hunger there,
Nor poverty the mind appall



 





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