Publ. London, 1800.

Lyrics: Matthew Gregory Lewis

The frozen streets in moonshine glitter,
The midnight hour has long been past.
Ah me! the wind blows keen and bitter;
I sink beneath the piercing blast.
In ev'ry vein seems life to languish,
Their weight my limbs no more can bear:
But no one soothes the orphan's anguish,
And no one heeds the orphan's prayer.

Hark, hark! for surely footsteps near me
Advancing press the drifted snow.
I die for food, oh stranger hear me;
I die for food, some alms bestow.
You see no guilty wretch implore you,
No wanton pleads in feign'd despair;
A famished orphan kneels before you;
Oh grant the famished orphan's prayer.

Perhaps you think my lips dissembling
Of virtuous sorrows feign a tale?
Then mark my frame with anguish trembling,
My hollow eyes and features pale.
E'en should my story prove ideal,
Too well these wasted limbs declare
My wants at least are not unreal;
Then, stranger, grant the orphan's prayer.

He's gone! no mercy man will show me;
In prayers no more I'll waste my breath.
Here on the frozen earth I'll throw me,
And wait in mute despair for death.
Farewell, thou cruel world: tomorrow
No more thy scorn my heart shall tear;
The grave will shield the child of sorrow,
And heav'n will hear the orphan's prayer.

But thou, proud man, the beggar scorning,
Unmoved who saw'st me kneel for bread;
Thy heart shall ache to hear at morning,
That morning found the beggar dead:
And when the room resounds with laughter,
My famish'd cry thy mirth shall scare;
And often shalt thou wish hereafter
Thou hadst not scorned the orphan's prayer.