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Toru Dutt - My Vocation
Work rating: Medium

A waif on this earth, 
Sick, ugly and small, 
Contemned from my birth 
And rejected by all, 
From my lips broke a cry, 
Such as anguish may wring, 
Sing, — said God in reply, 
Chant poor little thing. 


By Wealth`s coach besmeared 
With dirt in a shower, 
Insulted and jeered 
By the minions of power, 
Where — oh where shall I fly? 
Who comfort will bring? 
Sing, — said God in reply, 
Chant poor little thing. 


Life struck me with fright — 
Full of chances and pain, 
So I hugged with delight 
The drudge`s hard chain; 
One must eat, — yet I die, 
Like a bird with clipped wing, 
Sing — said God in reply, 
Chant poor little thing. 


Love cheered for a while 
My morn with his ray, 
But like a ripple or smile 
My youth passed away. 
Now near Beauty I sigh, 
But fled is the spring! 
Sing — said God in reply, 
Chant poor little thing. 


All men have a task, 
And to sing is my lot — 
No meed from men I ask 
But one kindly thought. 
My vocation is high — 
`Mid the glasses that ring, 
Still — still comes that reply, 
Chant poor little thing.
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