Can I see another's woe,
And not be in sorrow too?
Can I see another's grief,
And not seek for kind relief?
Can I see a falling tear,
And not feel my sorrow's share?
Can a father see his child
Weep, nor be with sorrow fill'd?
Can a mother sit and hear
An infant groan an infant fear
No, no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!
And can he who smiles on all
Hear the wren with sorrows small,
Hear the small bird's grief and care,
Hear the woes that infants bear,
And not sit beside the nest,
Pouring pity in their breast;
And not sit the cradle near,
Weeping tear on infant's tear;
And not sit both night and day,
Wiping all our tears away?
O, no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!
He doth give his joy to all;
He bcomes an infant small;
He becomes a man of woe;
He doth feel the sorrow too.
Think not thou canst sigh a sigh
And thy maker is not by;
Think not thou canst weep a tear
And thy maker is not near.
O! he gives to us joy
That our grief he may destroy;
Till our grief is fled and gone
He doth sit by us and moan.
We all look on with anxious eyes
When father carves the duck,
And mother almost always sighs
When father carves the duck;
Then all of us prepare to rise,
And hold our bibs before our eyes,
And be prepared for some surprise,
When father carves the duck.
He braces up and grabs a fork
When'er he carves a duck,
And won't allow a soul to talk
Until he's carved the duck.
The fork is jabbed into the sides,
Acrossd the breast the knife he slides,
While every careful person hides
From flying chips of duck.
The platter's almost sure to slip
When father carves a duck,
And how it makes the dishes skip!
Potatoes fly amuck!
The sqaush and cabbage leap in space,
We get some gravy in our face
And father mutters Hindoo grace
When father carves the duck.
We then have learned to walk around
The dining-room and pluck
From off the window sills and walls
Our share of father's duck.
While father growls and blows his jaws
And swears the knife was full of flaws,
And mother laughs at him because
He couldn't carve a duck.
If you for specimens should hunt
With trunks behind and tails in front,
The hunt would occupy you long,
The force of habit is so strong.
When I was one-and-twenty
I heard him say again,
"The heart out of the bosom
Was never given in vain;
'Tis paid with sighs and plenty
And sold for endless rue."
And I am two-and-twenty,
And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true.
