Pity the sorrows of a poor old man!

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door

Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,

Oh! give relief - and Heav'n will bless your store

   These tatter'd cloaths my poverty bespeak,

These hoary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years;

And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek

Has been the channel to a stream of tears.

    Yon house, erected on the rising ground,

With tempting aspect drew me from the road

For plenty there a residence has found,

And grandeur a magnificent abode.

   (Hard is the Fate of the infirm and poor!)

Here crowing for a morsel of their bread,

A pamper'd menial forc'd me from the door,

To seek a shelter in a humbler shed.

   Oh! take me to your hospitable dome,

Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold!

Short is my passage to the friendly tomb,

For I am poor - and miserably old.

   Should I reveal the source of every grief

If soft humanity e'er touch'd your breast,

Your hands would not with-hold the kind relief,

And tears of pity could not be represt.

   Heav'n sends misfortunes - why should we repine?

'Tis Heav'n has brought one to the state you see:

And your condition may be soon like mine,

- The child of sorrow - and of misery.

   A little farm was my paternal lot,

Then like the Lark I sprightly hail'd the morn;

But ah! Oppression forc'd me from my cot,

My cattle dy'd, and blighted was my corn.

   My daughter, once the comfort of my age!

Lur'd by a villain from her native home,

Is cast abandon'd on the world's wide stage,

And doom'd in scanty poverty to roam.

   My tender wife - sweet soother of my care!

Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree,

Fell - ling'ring fell a victim to despair,

And left the world to wretchedness and me.

   Pity the sorrows of a poor old man!

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door

Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,

Oh! give relief - and Heav'n will bless your store