THE WEAVERS

Many a time your father gave me aid

When I was down, and now I'm down again:

You must n'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 wo n'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 have n'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.