Death Of The Traunt Pauper Boy

Kind cottager, attend, and smile
Still kindly as I die,
I would not that a tear should wet
Thy mild and friendly eye—
I only need a quiet grave
Where I may lay my head,
And feel no more the bitter lot.
Of one whose friends are dead.

Nay start not back—my friends are dead—
Then search your inmost heart,
And fancy what your thoughts will be
When all your friends depart.
When sun-shine shone upon the earth,
On me no joy it shed—
For what is sun-light to the eye.
Of him whose friends are dead ?

Then winter came—and falling snows
Fell fast upon the earth,
I heard no more the joyous songs.
Of wild birds in their mirth :
Yet no one came to look for me
As throuffh the waste I fled,
I was alone upon the wild
For all my friends were dead.

For, from the town I ran away,
I long'd to be alone,
What was the pauper's scanty meal
To him whose friends were gone—
For no one seem'd to understand
Nor heeded what I said,
They laugh'd and jested when I wept
Because my friends were dead.

Then drearily last night came on
Baneath the hawthorn tree.
Whose branches cloth'd with feathery snow
Was canopy for me.
I tried to think of joy and hope.
But joy and hope had fled—
There came a voice among the boughs,
Which cried thy friends are dead.

Yet even there at least I slept
And dreamt my mother's voice.
With many a well known ev'ning song
Call'd on me to rejoice.
But from my frozen heart all joy
And joyous hope had fled,
It seem'd to burst, as I replied
That all my friends were dead.

Then thou didst find me cottager,
Beneath the hawthorn tree,
Thy woids are kind—but ah too late
Are kind words greeting me.
I saw thee look into my face.
There thou the truth hast read,
'Tis written there in sorrow marks—
That all my friends are dead.

You knew our cot upon the beach
Which look'd upon the sea,
'Where Mother lived and fondly loved
Poor sister Jane and me ?
She sung to us the sweetest songs,
The prettiest tales she read,
No children were so blest as we,
Before our friends were dead.

My Father battled on the sea.
The tempest and the foe,
He conquered oft, but was at last
Amons: the brave laid low.
And when the ships came into port,
Around the news was spread—
My Mother breathed one long deep sigh-
And all our friends were dead.

So then we link'd our trembling hands,
And wandered o'er the plain,
We laid us down to rest at night
Beside the roaring main.
Upon my celling heart she laid
Her little flaxen head,
We slept—hut when I woke again,
Oh !—all—my friends were dead !

My home is where my kindred rest,
A place of rest for me.
Refreshing is that dreamless sleep,
From pain and sori-ow free—
Then gladly lay me in the tnrf.
And flowers above me spread,
This death-pang is the only joy
I've known since friends were dead.

by Josias Homely

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