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Is this a holy thing to
see,
In a rich and fruitful land,
Babes reducd to misery,
Fed with cold and usurous hand?
Is that trembling cry a
song?
Can it be a song of joy?
And so many children poor?
It is a land of poverty!
And their sun does
never shine.
And their fields are bleak and bare.
And their ways are fill'd with thorns
It is eternal winter there.
For where-e'er the sun does shine,
And where-e'er the rain does fall:
Babe can never hunger there,
Nor poverty the mind appall. |
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