Misery Is My Lot, Poverty And Pain; Ill Was I Begot, Ill Must I Remain; Yet The Wretched Days One Sweet Comfort Bring, When God Whispering Says, "Sing, O Singer, Sing!" Chariots Rumble By, Splashing Me With Mud; Insolence See I Fawn To Royal Blood; Solace Have I Then From Each Galling Sting In That Voice Again,-- "Sing, O Singer, Sing!" Cowardly At Heart, I Am Forced To Play A Degraded Part For Its Paltry Pay; Freedom Is A Prize For No Starving Thing; Yet That Small Voice Cries, "Sing, O Singer, Sing!" I Was Young, But Now, When I'm Old And Gray, Love--I Know Not How Or Why--Hath Sped Away; Still, In Winter Days As In Hours Of Spring, Still A Whisper Says, "Sing, O Singer, Sing!" Ah, Too Well I Know Song'S My Only Friend! Patiently I'll Go Singing To The End; Comrades, To Your Wine! Let Your Glasses Ring! Lo, That Voice Divine Whispers, "Sing, Oh, Sing!"