Ay! fill it up, my sister dear;

His brothers all like him are gaunt,

And sister’s too; then do not fear

To choke the gaping mouth of want.

Fill up! his heart beats quick and high,

The tears stand in his sickly eye;

Poor, wretched, ragged beggar-boy,

He scarce can thank thee now, for joy!

The basket’s heavy; what of that?

His heart is light, he heeds it not;

His feet are cold and bare, poor brat!

But this has always been his lot.

He trudges on, or stops to steal

Quick glances at the dainty meal;

And then his purple lips do bless

The heart that pitied his distress.

At home, how will the meagre ones

Clutch at those broken bits of bread!

How will they banquet on those bones,

Like ravens feasting on the dead!

A dainty stomach would refuse

Such food; but ‘beggars cannot choose:’

They relish what the rich condemn,

But hunger makes the sauce for them.

Ah, sister! when the beggar-boy

Returns, think still on hunger’s pain;

Lighten his little heart with joy,

And fill his basket up again.

Who pities wretchedness does well,

But who relieves it, doth excel.

Then ever, till the common end,

Let Misery find in thee, a friend.