The blind boy

O say! what is that thing call'd light,

Which I must ne'er enjoy?

What are the blessings of the sight?

O tell your poor blind boy!

You talk of wond'rous things you see,

You say the sun shines bright;

I feel him warm, but how can he

Or make it day or night.

My day or night myself I make,

Whene'er I sleep or play;

And could I ever keep awake,

With me 'twere always day.

With heavy sighs I often hear

You mourn my hapless woe;

But sure with patience I can bear

A loss I ne'er can know.

Then let not what I cannot have

My cheer of mind destroy;

Whilst thus I sing, I am a king,

Although a poor blind boy.