I gladly would sing in a joyous strain, 
But my heart of its joy is bereft; 
For my young life there is nought but grief and pain, 
And a haunting memory left. 
Look at the stars how they gleam from the skies 
On me with a frosty stare; 
Can it be that this world hath no pitying eyes 
For the houseless child of care? 
Ye that look on me have homes tonight, 
And loving ones wait you there; 
And the cheerful fire is burning bright, 
And young faces are beaming fair. 
Though a thousand homes are around I know 
'Mong them all there is no home for me: 
For I must sleep in the cold white snow, 
And the skies must my shelter be. 
My life is still in its summer years, 
But its flowers can bloom no more; 
I weep - and mine are the bitter tears 
That are wept for the joys of yore. 
Then I cannot be glad, for my heart will cling 
To the grief that is all its own: 
So wonder not that I only sing 
A song with a mournful tone.