I'm a helpless cripple child, Gentle Christians, pity me;
Once, in rosy health I smiled, Blithe and gay as you can be,
And upon the village
First in every sport was seen.
Now, alas!
I'm weak and low, Cannot either work or play;
Tottering on my crutches, slow, Thus I drag my weary way:
Now no longer dance and sing,
Gaily, in the merry ring.
Many sleepless nights I live, Turning on my weary bed;
Softest pillows cannot give Slumber to my aching head;
Constant anguish makes it
From my heavy, wakeful eye.
And, when morning beams return, Still no comfort beams for me:
Still my limbs with fever burn, Painful still my crippled knee.
And another tedious
Passes slow and sad away.
From my chamber-window high, Lifted to my easy-chair,
I the village-green can spy, Once I used to frolic there,
March, or beat my new-bought drum;
Happy times! no more to come.
There I see my fellows gay, Sporting on the daisied turf,
And, amidst their cheerful play, Stopp'd by many a merry laugh;
But the sight I scarce can bear,
Leaning in my easy-chair.
Let not then the scoffing eye Laugh, my twisted leg to see:
Gentle Christians, passing by, Stop awhile, and pity me,
And for you I'll breathe a prayer,
Leaning in my easy-chair.
