Is this a holy thing to see. In a rich and fruitful land. Babes reduced to misery. Fed with cold and usurous hand? Is that trembling cry a song? Can it be a song of joy? And so many children poor? It is a land of poverty! And their sun does never shine. And their fields are bleak & bare. And their ways are fill'd with thorns It is eternal winter there. For where-e'er the sun does shine. And where-e'er the rain does fall: Babe can never hunger there, Nor poverty the mind appall.