Misery is my lot, Poverty and pain; Ill was I begot, Ill must I remain; Yet the wretched days One sweet comfort bring, When God whispering says, "Sing, O singer, sing!"
Chariots rumble by, Splashing me with mud; Insolence see I Fawn to royal blood; Solace have I then From each galling sting In that voice again, -- "Sing, O singer, sing!"
Cowardly at heart, I am forced to play A degraded part For its paltry pay; Freedom is a prize For no starving thing; Yet that small voice cries, "Sing, O singer, sing!"
I _was_ young, but now, When I'm old and gray, Love -- I know not how Or why -- hath sped away; Still, in winter days As in hours of spring, _Still_ a whisper says, "Sing, O singer, sing!"
Ah, too well I know Song's my only friend! Patiently I'll go Singing to the end; Comrades, to your wine! Let your glasses ring! Lo, that voice divine Whispers, "Sing, oh, sing! "
End of title
Sign in to unlock this title
Sign in to continue reading, it's free! As an unregistered user you can only read a little bit.
