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.