The Little Cripple's 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 green5First 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:10Now no longer dance and sing,Gaily, in the merry ring.

Many sleepless nights I live,Turning on my weary bed;Softest pillows cannot give15Slumber to my aching head;Constant anguish makes it flyFrom my heavy, wakeful eye.

And, when morning beams return,Still no comfort beams for me:20Still my limbs with fever burn,Painful still my crippled knee.And another tedious dayPasses slow and sad away.

From my chamber-window high,25Lifted 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.30

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,35Leaning in my easy-chair.

Let not then the scoffing eyeLaugh, my twisted leg to see:Gentle Christians, passing by,Stop awhile, and pity me,40And for you I'll breathe a prayer,Leaning in my easy-chair.