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