Classic Poem

“Mud lies at the door, the door of the inn
Thatched is its roof with straw—O it's a sin
The money I've spent there—the sums untold,
They might have topped the roof with solid gold
Hai, Hai!”

The landlady and landlord, quarrelling,
Stop as they hear the tramp begin to sing.

“Get up, get up and fetch me supper soon.”
“Nay, there's no bite nor sup for such a tune.

“Lie down, lie down, such legs can't bear you far—
Head to the door, feet where the tables are!”

Then, ere he sleeps, he hears the landlord shout:
“Oxen must drink—get up and take them out!”

He has no hat, so no hat may he don;
He wears no boots, for they have long since gone.

Three hours before the dawn, unwashen, cold,
He sees a dark cloud gather, fold on fold.

And soon the rain in pelting drops descends
Upon the wretch who has no home nor friends.

He looks upon his bare feet, and, with tears,
“Mother!” he cries, “behold the toll of years!

“Why was I born, or why didst thou not shrink
From giving me my will—freedom to drink?

“One only son hadst thou, whom men call ‘tramp,’
Doubtless a vagabond and worthless scamp—

“When thou didst carry me on river bank,
Why didst thou not see to it that I sank?”