The Weavers

    Many a time your father gave me aid
        When I was down, and now I'm down again:
    You mustn't take it bad or be dismayed
        Because I say, young folk should help old men
        And 'tis their duty to do that: Amen!

    I have no cows, no sheep, no cloak, no hat,
        For those who used to give me things are dead
    And my luck died with them: because of that
        I won't pay you a farthing, but, instead,
        I'll owe you till the dead rise from the dead.

    A farthing! that's not much, but, all the same,
        I haven't half a farthing, for that grand
    Big idiot called Fortune rigged the game
        And gave me nothing, while she filled the hand
        Of every stingy devil in the land.

    You weave, and I: you shirts: I weave instead
        My careful verse, but you get paid at times!
    The only rap I get is on my head:
        But should it come again that men like rhymes
        And pay for them, I'll pay you for your shirt.