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.