A chimney-sweeper's boy am I:
Pity my wretched fate!
Ah, turn your eyes; 'twoud draw a tear,
Knew you my helpless state.
Far from my home, no parents I
Am ever doomed to see;
My master, should I sue to him,
He'd flog the skin from me.
Ah, dearest madam, dearest sir,
Have pity on my youth;
Though black, and covered o'er with rags,
I tell you naught but truth.
My feeble limbs, benumbed with cold,
Totter beneath the sack,
Which ere the morning dawn appears
Is loaded on my back.
My legs you see are burnt and bruised,
My feet are galled by stones,
My flesh for lack of food is gone,
I'm little else but bones.
Yet still my master makes me work,
Not spares me day or night;
His 'prentice boy he says I am,
And he will have his right.
'Up to the highest top', he cries,
'There all out _chimney-sweep_!'
With panting heart and weeping eyes,
Trembling I upwards creep.
But stop! no more -- I see him come;
Kind sir, remember me!
Oh, could I hide me underground,
How thankful should I be!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem