A poor helpelss wand'rer, the wide world before me,
When the harsh din of war forc'd a parent to roam,
With no friend, save kind Heaven, to protect and watch o'er me,
I a child of Affliction was robb'd of a home;
And thus with a sigh I accosted each stranger--
'O, look with compassion on poor orphan Bess!
'Your mite may relieve her from each threat'ning danger,
'And the soft tear of pity can soothe her distress.'

To the rich, by whom Virtue's too often neglected,
I tell my sad story, and crave their relief;
But Wealth seldom feels for a wretch unprotected--
'Tis Poverty only partakes of her grief.
Ah! little they think that the thousands they squander
On the play--things of folly and fripp'ries of dress,
Would relieve the keen wants of the wretched who wander,
While the soft tear of pity would soothe their distress!

Tho' bereft of each comfort, poor Bess will not languish;
Since short is life's journey, 'tis vain to lament;
And he who still marks the deep sigh of keen anguish,
Hath plac'd in this bosom the jewel content.
Then, ye wealthy to--day, think, ah! think, ere tomorrow
The frowns of Misfortune upon you may press,
And turn not away from a poor orphan's sorrow,
When the soft tear of pity can soothe her distress.