Weary and way-sore.
Drear were the downs, more dreary her reflections;
Cold was the night wind, colder was her bosom:
She had no home, the world was all before her,
She had no shelter.
Fast o’er the heath a chariot rattled by her:
“Pity me!” feebly cried the poor night wanderer.
“Pity me, strangers! lest with cold and hunger
Here I should perish.
“Once I had friends—but they have all forsook me!