Must envy the son of the Coster,
The waifs of the Workhouse. Poor boys!
They, too, are unitedly yearning
To "go to the country," together.
Hope on the horizon is burning
With prospect of promising weather.
One pities them, looking and longing,
Aweary of waiting their turn
With those who are country wards thronging;
The "Voice of the Country" they'd learn.