Little Blind Girl

Twas a drear November morning When the air was dull and chill When we spied the poor blind girl Left to die upon the hill In her hand a written paper told her history short but sad How thus lovely blind and starving And why left so thinly clad It said the hand of sickness reft away her infant sight And the hand of death had left her motherless, an orphan quite I know not how her father thus could leave his blind child there Was it done with selfish feeling? Or in passion's wild despair? But, alas, we must remember is his was an even mind And he thought the girl how useless Helpless, burdensome and blind But we know not of his feelings If his breast but heaved a sigh As he left that little lone one on that hillside there to die On that drear November morning With the air so dull and chill Spied we thus the poor blind girl Crying, moaning on the hill "Oh, it rains, the wind is blowing, mother!", "Mother, let me in!" Sadly, sadly she was crying Wrapped in garments far too thin Many friends the orphan helping Pitying her sad distress And the hand of life and kindness Seeked to comfort, cheer and bless Now within a home of plenty There to tend with love and care And the name by which we call her Is the little gathered Pearl