Cold blows the wind, and while the tear Bursts trembling from my swollen eyes,
The rain's big drop, quick meets it there, And on my naked bosom flies! O pity, all ye sons of Joy, The little wand'ring Negro-boy.
These tatter'd clothes, this ice-cold breast By Winter harden'd into steel,
These eyes, that know not soothing rest, But speak the half of what I feel! Long, long,
I never new one joy, The little wand'ring Negro-boy!
Cannot the sigh of early grief Move but one charitable mind?
Cannot one hand afford relief? One Christian pity, and be kind? Weep, weep, for thine was never joy, O little wand'ring Negro-boy!
Is there a good which men call Pleasure? O Ozmyn, would that it were thine!
Give me this only precious treasure; How it would soften grief like mine! Then Ozmyn might be call'd, with joy, The little wand'ring Negro-boy!
My limbs these twelve long years have borne The rage of ev'ry angry wind:
Yet still does Ozmyn weep and mourn, Yet still no ease, no rest can find! Then death, alas, must soon destroy The little wand'ring Negro-boy!
No sorrow e'er disturbs the rest, That dwells within the lonely grave;
Thou best resource, the wo-wrung breast E'er ask'd of Heav'n, or Heav'n e'er gave! Ah then, farewell, vain world, with joy I die the happy Negro-boy!
