THEY who cease as time goes by,
‘Father, mother dear,’ to cry,
They are needy, they are poor,
Gold and silver though they store;
How much more then poorer he
Who to strangers’ doors must flee!

Strangers all, and nowhere home!
From the cheek all joy is gone!
E’en the chafers homes have found,
On the green leaves sleeping sound;
Only I, poor orphan, weep,
On the pavement doom’d to sleep.

Still I do not quite despair,
Heavenward gazing—God is there!
Ev’ry flower he tendeth mild,
Looketh too on me his child,
He, the lilies clothing fair,
Doth for the poor orphan care.