BÉRANGER.
Cast adrift on this sphere
Where my fellows were born,
None gave me a tear,
I was weakly—forlorn.
My plaint for their spurning
To heaven took wing,—
Sweet voices said, yearning,
"Sing, Little One, sing!"
My lot, as I rove,
Is to sing for the throng;—
And will not they love
The poor Child for his song?