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Is this a holy thing to see In a rich and fruitful land, Babes reduc'd to misery, Fed with cold and usurous hand? Is that trembling cry a song? Can it be 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 were-e'er the rain does fall, Babe can never hunger there, Nor poverty the mind appall.
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