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.