The Complaints Of The Poor.

    And wherefore do the Poor complain?
    The rich man asked of me,--
    Come walk abroad with me, I said
    And I will answer thee.

    Twas evening and the frozen streets
    Were cheerless to behold,
    And we were wrapt and coated well,
    And yet we were a-cold.

    We met an old bare-headed man,
    His locks were few and white,
    I ask'd him what he did abroad
    In that cold winter's night:

    'Twas bitter keen indeed, he said,
    But at home no fire had he,
    And therefore, he had come abroad
    To ask for charity.

    We met a young bare-footed child,
    And she begg'd loud and bold,
    I ask'd her what she did abroad
    When the wind it blew so cold;

    She said her father was at home
    And he lay sick a-bed,
    And therefore was it she was sent
    Abroad to beg for bread.

    We saw a woman sitting down
    Upon a stone to rest,
    She had a baby at her back
    And another at her breast;

    I ask'd her why she loiter'd there
    When the wind it was so chill;
    She turn'd her head and bade the child
    That scream'd behind be still.

    She told us that her husband served
    A soldier, far away,
    And therefore to her parish she
    Was begging back her way.

    We met a girl; her dress was loose
    And sunken was her eye,
    Who with the wanton's hollow voice
    Address'd the passers by;

    I ask'd her what there was in guilt
    That could her heart allure
    To shame, disease, and late remorse?
    She answer'd, she was poor.

    I turn'd me to the rich man then
    For silently stood he,
    You ask'd me why the Poor complain,
    And these have answer'd thee.