The Blind Boy

O, say, what is that thing called Light,

Which I must ne'er enjoy?

What are the blessings of the sight?

O tell your poor blind boy!

You talk of wondrous things you see;

You say the sun shines bright;

I feel him warm, but how can he

Make either day or night?

My day and night myself I make,

Whene'er I sleep or play,

And could I always keep awake,

With me 'twere always day.

With heavy sighs I often hear

You mourn my hapless woe;

But sure with patience I can bear

A loss I ne'er can know.

Then let not what I cannot have

My peace of mind destroy;

Whilst thus I sing, I am a king,

Although a poor blind boy!