Ay, fill it up, my sister dear,
His brothers all like him are gaunt,
And sisters 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 hungry ones
Clutch at those bits of broken 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,
For hunger makes the sauce for them.