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.