THE
CHIMNEY-SWEEPER'S
COMPLAINT
.
A
chimney
sweeper's
boy
am
I
;
Pity
my
wretched
fate
!
Ah
,
turn
your
eyes
;
'twould
draw
a
tear
,
Knew
you
my
helpless
state
.
Far
from
my
home
,
no
parents
I
Am
ever
doom'd
to
see
;
My
master
,
should
I
sue
to
him
,
He'd
flog
the
skin
from
me
.
Ah
,
deareft
Madam
,
dearest
Sir
,
Have
pity
on
my
youth
;
Tho'
black
,
and
cover'd
o'er
with
rags
,
I
tell
you
nought
but
truth
.
My
feeble
limbs
,
benumb'd
with
cold
,
Totter
beneath
the
fack
,
Which
ere
the
morning
dawn
appears
Is
loaded
on
my
back
.
My
legs
you
see
are
burnt
and
bruis'd
,
My
feet
are
gall'd
by
stones
,
My
flesh
for
lack
of
food
is
gone
,
I'm
little
else
but
bones
.
Yet
still
my
master
makes
me
work
,
Nor
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
call
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
under
ground
,
How
thankful
should
I
be
!