REMEMBER THE POOR.
As sung by Lottie Grant.
Now winter has come with his cold, chilly breath,
And the verdure has dropped from the trees;
All nature seems touched with the finger of death,
And the streams are beginning to freeze.
When wanton young lads o'er the river can slide,
And Floria attends us no more;
When in plenty you sit by a good fireside,
Sure you ought to remember the poor.
When the cold-feathered Snow does in plenty descend,
And whiten the prospects around;
When the keen cutting wind from the North shall attend,
Hard, chilling and freezing the ground.
When the hills and the dales are all covered with white,
When the rivers congeal to the shore;
When the bright twinkling stars shall proclaim a cold night,
Then remember the state of the poor.
When the poor, harmless hare may be traced to the woods,
By her footsteps indented in snow;
When the lips and the fingers are standing in blood,
When the marksmen a game-shooting go.
When the poor robin redbreast approaches the cot,
When the icicles hang at the door;
When the bowl smokes with something reviving And hot.
That's the time to remember the poor.
Soon the day will be here when a Savior was born,
All the world shall agree as one race;
All nations unite to salute the blest morn.
All ends of the earth shall rejoice.
Grim death is deprived of his all-killing sting,
And the grave is triumphant no more;
Saints, angels and men hallelujah shall sing,
And the rich shall remember the poor.