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