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Anonymous translation from the French
HERE in the ditch my bones I ’ll lay; | |
| Weak, wearied, old, the world I leave. | |
| “He ’s drunk,” the passing crowd will say | |
| ’T is well, for none will need to grieve. | |
| Some turn their scornful heads away, | 5 |
| Some fling an alms in hurrying by;— | |
| Haste,—’t is the village holyday! | |
| The aged beggar needs no help to die. | |
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| Yes! here, alone, of sheer old age | |
| I die; for hunger slays not all. | 10 |
| I hoped my misery’s closing page | |
| To fold within some hospital; | |
| But crowded thick is each retreat, | |
| Such numbers now in misery lie. | |
| Alas! my cradle was the street! | 15 |
| As he was born the aged wretch must die. | |
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| In youth, of workmen, o’er and o’er, | |
| I ’ve asked, “Instruct me in your trade.” | |
| “Begone!—our business is not more | |
| Than keeps ourselves,—go, beg!” they said. | 20 |
| Ye rich, who bade me toil for bread, | |
| Of bones your tables gave me store, | |
| Your straw has often made my bed;— | |
| In death I lay no curses at your door. | |
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| Thus poor, I might have turned to theft;— | 25 |
| No!—better still for alms to pray! | |
| At most, I ’ve plucked some apple, left | |
| To ripen near the public way, | |
| Yet weeks and weeks, in dungeons laid | |
| In the king’s name, they let me pine; | 30 |
| They stole the only wealth I had,— | |
| Though poor and old, the sun, at least, was mine. | |
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| What country has the poor to claim? | |
| What boots to me your corn and wine, | |
| Your busy toil, your vaunted fame, | 35 |
| The senate where your speakers shine? | |
| Once, when your homes, by war o’erswept, | |
| Saw strangers battening on your land, | |
| Like any puling fool, I wept! | |
| The aged wretch was nourished by their hand. | 40 |
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| Mankind! why trod you not the worm, | |
| The noxious thing, beneath your heel? | |
| Ah! had you taught me to perform | |
| Due labor for the common weal! | |
| Then, sheltered from the adverse wind, | 45 |
| The worm and ant had learned to grow; | |
| Ay,—then I might have loved my kind;— | |
| The aged beggar dies your bitter foe! | |
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