Should I reveal the sources of my grief,
If soft humanity e’er touch’d your breast,
Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,
And tears of pity would not be repressed.
Heaven sends misfortunes; why should we repine?
’Tis Heaven has brought me to the state you see;
And your condition may be soon like mine,
The child of sorrow and of misery.
A little farm was my paternal lot;
Then like the lark I sprightly hail’d the morn,