The Little Cripples Complaint

 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 green
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 fly
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 day
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.

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