I saw an old cottage of clay,
And only of mud was the floor;
It was all falling into decay,
And the snow drifted in at the door.

Yet there a poor family dwelt,
In a hovel so dismal and rude;
And though gnawing hunger they felt,
They had not a morsel of food.

The children were crying for bread,
And to their poor mother they-d run;
-Oh, give us some breakfast,- they said,
Alas! their poor mother had none.

She viewed them with looks of despair,
She said (and I-m sure it was true),
--Tis not for myself that I care,
But, my poor little children, for you.-

O then, let the wealthy and gay
But see such a hovel as this,
That in a poor cottage of clay
They may know what true misery is.
And what I may have to bestow
I never will squander away,
While many poor people I know
Around me are wretched as they.