Do I not wish I was like other folk?
Well, if a wish would do me any good
I think,—I almost think, sir,—that I should.
But if a lame limb's my appointed yoke,
It's not as bad as many a one might be,
It's easier p'raps to carry than to see!
I was not born here,—No, it must be hard
To be a poor lame child in such a place.
Why wonder at his pinched and wearied face,
When he's from God's own grass and trees debarred?