This text comes from A First Series of Hymns and Songs, a historical songbook transcribed on Wikisource and reproduced from the pinned revision linked below.
Oh say, what is that thing call'd light,
Which I must ne'er enjoy?
What are the blessings of the sight?
Oh, tell a poor blind boy.
You talk of wondrous things you see.
You say the sun shines bright;
I feel him warm, but how can he
Or make it day or night?
My day or night myself I make,
Whene'er I sleep or play;
And could I always keep awake,
With me 'twere always day.
Then let not what I cannot have
My cheer of mind destroy;
While thus I sing I am a king,
Although a poor blind boy.