"No home, no home," said a little girlAt the door of a rich man's homeShe trembling stood on the marble stepsAnd leaned on the polished wallHer clothes were thin and her feet were bareAnd the snowflakes covered her head"Let me come in," she feebly said"Please give me a little bread."As the little girl still trembling stoodBefore that rich man's doorWith a frowning face he scornfully said"No room, no bread for the poor."Then the rich man went to his table so fineWhere he and his family were fedAnd the orphan stood in the snow so deepAs she cried for a piece of breadThe rich man slept on his velvet couchAnd he dreamed of his silver and goldWhile the orphan lay in a bed of snowAnd murmured, "So cold, so cold."The hours rolled on through the midnight stormRolled on like a funeral bellThe sleet came down in a blinding sheetAnd the drifting snow still fellWhen morning came the little girlStill lay at the rich man's doorBut her soul had fled away to its homeWhere there's room and there's bread for the poor
