MY VOCATION

By: Toru Dutt

A waif on this earth,

Sick, ugly and small,

Contemned from my birth

And rejected by all...

From my lips broke…

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 mead 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.