Oh, say! what is that thing call'd _light_,
Which I can ne'er enjoy?
What is the blessing of the sight?
Oh, tell your poor blind boy.

You talk of wondrous things you see;
You say the sun shines bright;
I feel his warmth, but how can he
E'er make it day or night?

My day or night myself I make,
Whene'er I sleep or play;
And could I always keep awake,
It would be always day.

With heavy sighs, I often hear
You mourn my hopeless woe;
But sure with patience I may bear
A loss I do not know.

Then let not what I cannot have
My peace of mind destroy;
While thus I sing, I am a king,
Although a poor blind boy.




THE INISKILLING REGIMENT.