 | A Selection from the Works of Frederick Locker |  |
109
BÉRANGER.
Cast adrift on this sphere
Where my fellows were born,
None gave me a tear,
I was weakly—forlorn.
Where my fellows were born,
None gave me a tear,
I was weakly—forlorn.
My plaint for their spurning
To heaven took wing,—
Sweet voices said, yearning,
“Sing, Little One, sing!”
To heaven took wing,—
Sweet voices said, yearning,
“Sing, Little One, sing!”
My lot, as I rove,
Is to sing for the throng;—
And will not they love
The poor Child for his song?
Is to sing for the throng;—
And will not they love
The poor Child for his song?
| A Selection from the Works of Frederick Locker | |