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Here, alone, before thine eyes,
From weakness, now, and pain defended,
Whom he twenty winters tended.
Look but at the gardener's pride,
Roses, lilies, side by side,
Violets in families.
By the heart of Man, his tears,
By his hopes and by his fears,
Thou, old Grey-beard! art the Warden
Of a far superior garden.
Thus then, each to other dear,
Let them all in quiet lie,
Andrew there and Susan here,
Neighbours in mortality.
And should I live through sun and rain
I hate that Andrew Jones: he'll breed
I said not this, because he loves
A friendless Man, a travelling Cripple !
For this poor crawling helpless wretch
Inch-thick the dust lay on the ground
It chanc'd that Andrew pass'd that way
Just at the time; and there he found
He saw the penny on the ground.
He stopp'd and took the penny up: And when the Cripple nearer drew, Quoth Andrew, "Under half-a-crown, What a man finds is all his own,
And so, my Friend, good day to you."
And hence I said, that Andrew's boys Will all be train'd to waste and pillage; And wish'd the press-gang, or the drum With its tantara sound, would come And sweep him from the village!