Is This A Holy Thing To See In A Rich And Fruitful Land, Babes Reduced To Misery, Fed With Cold And Usurous Hand? Is That Trembling Cry A Song? Can It Be A Song Of Joy? And So Many Children Poor? It Is A Land Of Poverty! And Their Son Does Never Shine, And Their Fields Are Bleak And Bare, And Their Ways Are Filled With Thorns: It Is Eternal Winter There. For Where'Er The Sun Does Shine, And Where'Er The Rain Does Fall, Babes Should Never Hunger There, Nor Poverty The Mind Appall.