1 When the winter wind whistles along the wild moor,
And the cottager shuts on the beggar his door;
When the chilling tear stands in my comfortless eye,
O how hard is the lot of the wandering boy,
O how hard is the lot of the wandering boy.

2 The wind it is cold, and I have no vest,
And my heart it is cold as it beats in my breast;
No father, no mother, no kindred have I,
For I am a parentless, wandering boy,
For I am a parentless, wandering boy.

3 Yet I once had a home, and I once had a sire,
A mother who granted each infant desire;
Our cottage it stood in a wood-embowered vale,
Where the ring-dove would warble its sorrowful tale,
Where the ring-dove would warble its sorrowful tale.

4 But my father and mother were summoned away,
And left me to hard-hearted strangers a prey;
I fled from their rigor with many a sigh,
And now I'm a poor little wandering boy,
And now I'm a poor little wandering boy.

5 The winter is cold, and the snow loads the gain,
And no one will list to my innocent tale;
Then I'll go to the grave where my parents both lie,
And death shall befriend the poor wandering boy,
And death shall befriend the poor wandering boy.