The Harp of Erin Containing the Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Dermody. In Two Volumes |
 | I. |
 |
|
|
|
THE
FEMALE MENDICANT. |
| II. |
 | The Harp of Erin |  |
252
THE FEMALE MENDICANT.
As, with step full weak and weary,
Faint from door to door I roam,
While the wind whistles deep and dreary,
And, in vain, I seek a home;
Tho' my grey locks with rain are dripping,
Tho' scarce my limbs their load can bear,
Tho' faster than the show'r I'm weeping,
See! they mock the falling tear!
Tell me, sweet Child of Pity, why—
guiltless wanderer am I?
Faint from door to door I roam,
While the wind whistles deep and dreary,
And, in vain, I seek a home;
Tho' my grey locks with rain are dripping,
Tho' scarce my limbs their load can bear,
Tho' faster than the show'r I'm weeping,
See! they mock the falling tear!
Tell me, sweet Child of Pity, why—
guiltless wanderer am I?
On this sad head, with age so stooping,
Full fourscore winters roll'd away,
And, ah! tho' now with sorrow drooping,
Once I've seen a brighter day;
Once I had fortune, health, and beauty,
And houses tall, and cultur'd land,
Children, observant of their duty,
A spouse, who press'd this shrivell'd hand,
Now stretch'd in vain: Ah tell me why—
A poor, old wanderer am I?
Full fourscore winters roll'd away,
And, ah! tho' now with sorrow drooping,
Once I've seen a brighter day;
Once I had fortune, health, and beauty,
And houses tall, and cultur'd land,
Children, observant of their duty,
A spouse, who press'd this shrivell'd hand,
Now stretch'd in vain: Ah tell me why—
A poor, old wanderer am I?
253
Boys, as I go, at me are hooting,
Banning sore the palsy'd crone,
Still, still, with cruel mock'ry shouting,
“Beldame! to thy grave begone!”
And, while the scanty faggot picking,
I mutter at my wayward doom,
Thorns in my seat the imps are sticking,
To wound the witch returning home.
Tell me, dear Child of Pity, why—
An harmless mendicant am I?
Banning sore the palsy'd crone,
Still, still, with cruel mock'ry shouting,
“Beldame! to thy grave begone!”
And, while the scanty faggot picking,
I mutter at my wayward doom,
Thorns in my seat the imps are sticking,
To wound the witch returning home.
Tell me, dear Child of Pity, why—
An harmless mendicant am I?
As thou would'st wish for joy and pleasure,
Thro' this tedious road of life,
As thou would'st wish for heav'n's best treasure,
Sweet babes, and a fond, faithful wife:
Scoff not a wretch, with famine pining,
Laugh not to scorn the widow's pray'r;
When on the bed of death reclining,
You'll see my blessing hov'ring there.
A little will my wants supply,
Feeble, and faint, and old am I.
Thro' this tedious road of life,
As thou would'st wish for heav'n's best treasure,
Sweet babes, and a fond, faithful wife:
Scoff not a wretch, with famine pining,
Laugh not to scorn the widow's pray'r;
When on the bed of death reclining,
You'll see my blessing hov'ring there.
A little will my wants supply,
Feeble, and faint, and old am I.
| The Harp of Erin | |