An Officer Sets Forth His Hard Lot

My way leads forth by the gate on the north;

    My heart is full of woe.

  I hav'n't a cent, begged, stolen, or lent,

    And friends forget me so.

    So let it be! 'tis Heaven's decree.

    What can I say--a poor fellow like me?

  The King has his throne, sans sorrow or moan;

    On me fall all his cares,

  And when I come home, resolved not to roam,

    Each one indignant stares.

    So let it be! 'tis Heaven's decree.

    What can I say--a poor fellow like me?

  Each thing of the King, and the fate of the State,

    On me come more and more.

  And when, sad and worn, I come back forlorn,

    They thrust me from the door.

      So let it be! 'tis Heaven's decree.

      What can I say--a poor fellow like me?