Oh scorn me not as a fameless thingNor turn with contempt from the song I sing\u27Tis true I am not suffer\u27d to beOn the ringing board of wassail gleeMy pallid gleam must never fallIn the gay saloon or lordly hallBut many a tale does the night lamp know Of secret sorrow and lonely woeI\u27m found in the closely curtain\u27d roomWhere a stillness reigns that breaths of the tombWhere the breaking heart and heavy eyeAre waiting to see a lov\u27d one dieWhere the doating child with noiseless treadSteals warily to the mother\u27s bedI\u27m wildly snatch\u27d and my glimring rayShows a glazing eye and stiffning clay
I am the light that quivering flitsIn the joyous home where the fond wife sitsWaiting the one that flies his hearthFor the gamblers dice and drunkards mirthShe mournfully trims my slender wickAnd many a time has my spark expiredAnd left her still the weeping and tired
Many a lesson the bosom learnsOf hapless grief while the night lamp burnsMany a scene unfolds to meThat the heart would bleed to seeThen scorn me not as a fameless thingNor with contempt from the song I singBut smile as ye will or scorn as ye mayThere\u27s nought to be found but truth in the la
