Misery is my lot, <br /> Poverty and pain; <br />Ill was I begot, <br /> Ill must I remain; <br />Yet the wretched days <br /> One sweet comfort bring, <br />When God whispering says, <br /> "Sing, O singer, sing!" <br /> <br />Chariots rumble by, <br /> Splashing me with mud; <br />Insolence see I <br /> Fawn to royal blood; <br />Solace have I then <br /> From each galling sting <br />In that voice again,-- <br /> "Sing, O singer, sing!" <br /> <br />Cowardly at heart, <br /> I am forced to play <br />A degraded part <br /> For its paltry pay; <br />Freedom is a prize <br /> For no starving thing; <br />Yet that small voice cries, <br /> "Sing, O singer, sing!" <br /> <br />I was young, but now, <br /> When I'm old and gray, <br />Love--I know not how <br /> Or why--hath sped away; <br />Still, in winter days <br /> As in hours of spring, <br />Still a whisper says, <br />"Sing, O singer, sing!" <br /> <br />Ah, too well I know <br /> Song's my only friend! <br />Patiently I'll go <br /> Singing to the end; <br />Comrades, to your wine! <br /> Let your glasses ring! <br />Lo, that voice divine <br /> Whispers, "Sing, oh, sing!"<br /><br />Eugene Field<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/b-ranger-s/
