Wind of the North, I know your song
Out on the frozen plain,
But here in the city's streets you seem
Only a cry of pain.
I know the note of your lusty throat
Where the black boughs toss and roar,
But here it is part of the old, old cry
Of the hungry, homeless poor.
I know the song that you sing to God,
Joyous and high and wild,
But here where His creatures herd and die,
'Tis the sob of a little child.