THE POOR BLIND BOY.

BY COLLY GIBBER, 1749.

Oh, say! what is that thing call'd light, Which I can ne'er enjoy? What is the blessing of the sight? Oh, tell your poor blind boy.

You talk of wondrous things you see; You say the sun shines bright; I feel his warmth, but how can he E'er make it day or night?

My day or night myself I make, Whene'er I sleep or play; And could I always keep awake, It would be always day.

With heavy sighs, I often hear You mourn my hopeless woe; But sure with patience I may bear A loss I do not know.

Then let not what I cannot have My peace of mind destroy; While thus I sing, I am a king, Although a poor blind boy.