POETRY

FOR

CHILDREN.

THE BEGGAR MAN.

AROUND the fire one wintry night
The farmer's rosy children sat;
The faggot lent its blazing light,
And jokes went round and careless chat.

When, hark! a gentle hand they hear
Low tapping at the bolted door,
And thus, to gain their willing ear,
A feeble voice was heard t'implore.

The Beggar Man.

66 Cold blows the blast across the moor,
The fleet drives hissing in the wind;
Yon toilsome mountain lies before,
A dreary treeless waste behind.

“My eyes are weak and dim with age,
No road, no path, can I descry,
And these poor rags ill ftand the rage
Of such a keen inclement sky.

“So faint I am these tottering feet
No more my palfied frame can bear;
My freezing heart forgets to beat,
And drifting snows my tomb prepare.

“Open your hospitable door,
And fhield me from the biting blast:
Cold, cold it blows across the moor,
The weary moor that I have pass’d!”

With hafty step the farmer ran,
And close beside the fire they place
The poor half-frozen beggar man
With shaking limbs and blue-pale face.