Whence those yells, that wound my ear?
’Tis the hapless child of sorrow!
’Tis poor Billy’s plaint I hear.
Now, in tatter’d plight I see him,
Teazing crowds around him press;
Ah! will none from insult free him?
None his injuries redress?
Fill’d with many a fearful notion,
Now he utters piercing cries;
Starting now, with sudden motion,