Classic Poem

And wherefore do the Poor complain?
The Rich Man ask'd of me; —
Come walk abroad with me, I said,
And I will answer thee.

'Twas evening, and the frozen streets
Were cheerless to behold,
And we were wrapp'd and coated well,
And yet we were a-cold.

We met an old, bare-headed man;
His locks were thin and white;
I ask'd him what he did abroad
In that cold winter's night.

The cold was keen indeed, he said,
But at home no fire had he,
And therefore he had come abroad
To ask for charity.

We met a young, bare-footed child,
And she begg'd loud and bold;
I ask'd her what she did abroad
When the wind it blew so cold.

She said her father was at home,
And he lay sick a-bed;
And therefore was it she was sent
Abroad to beg for bread.

We saw a woman sitting down
Upon a stone to rest;
She had a baby at her back,
And another at her breast.

I ask'd her why she loiter'd there
When the night-wind was so chill;
She turn'd her head and bade the child
That scream'd behind, be still; —

Then told us that her husband served,
A soldier, far away,
And therefore to her parish she
Was begging back her way.

We met a girl; her dress was loose,
And sunken was her eye,
Who with a wanton's hollow voice
Address'd the passers-by.

I ask'd her what there was in guilt
That could her heart allure
To shame, disease, and late remorse:
She answer'd, she was poor.

I turn'd me to the Rich Man then,
For silently stood he, —
You ask'd me why the poor complain,
And these have answer'd thee!