The Philosophical Beggar.

When I went into the woods this morn to sleep,

I saw an old man looking on the ground.

Said he: “Here, where a beggar ate his crust,

We see ten thousand little ants at work,

And they are earning now their winter’s ease.

As for myself, I cannot rest from work;

I have no patience with those idle fools

That waste their day in mourning wasted time-

My brain must ever be at work.  They say

Much work, and just a little pleasure mixed,

Is best for life; as flowers that live in shade

For twenty hours and sunlight four keep fresh

The longest and enjoy the longest life;

They do say this- but all my pleasure’s work.

I work on small, when great themes fail my mind-

As cats, when they can catch no mice, content

Themselves with flies.  If once I take a rest,

Then sudden famine takes my mind for days,

Which seeks but cannot find the barest feast.

How it doth fret my active Heart to see

The sloven Mind recovering from a day

Of idleness- letting Thoughts peep and none come out.

Ah, wretched hours that follow rest! When men

Have no desire for pleasure, and would work,

But still their Minds do sulk from past neglect.

This world, this mystery of Time, of Life

And Death, where every riddle men explain

Does make another one, or many more-

Can always keep the human mind employed;

Old men that do persuade themselves life’s work

Is but half done, must all die happy men.

E’en though we think the world and all things vain,

There lives a noble impulse in our minds

To strive and help to reach the perfect state.

Work, work, and thou hast joy; it matters not

If thou dost start upon a quest as vain

As children, when they seek a cuckoo’s nest-

The joy is on the way, not at the end.

When I am in this world’s society,

Then do I feel like some poor bird that would

Attend its young when people loiter near;

I see my thoughts like blossoms fade, and know

That they will die and never turn to fruit.

What juicy joints I threw away when young!

To think of those rich joints makes this meat sweet,

Near to the bone, which Time doth offer now.

Work, work, I say; sleep is sufficient rest;

It is the wage that Nature pays to all,

And when we spend our eyes in idleness,

She gives short time; and they that earn the least

Do grumble most, when she keeps back full pay.

“Now, woodman, do thy work, and I’ll do mine-

An active man can almost break Death’s heart.”

Then with a pencil and a book he went

Mumbling and writing, into the deep woods.

Now, what an old, mad fool is that, methought;

He tries to make one hour do work for two,

To keep away the ghosts of murdered ones

He foully did to death when a small boy.

He’ll work his brains, and then the world will rob

His hive of its pure honey; in its place

Put for his food cheap syrup of weak praise.

His mind’s a garden, all the flowers are his;

But when he markets his sweet honey goods,

Then scoundrel bees, that have their hives elsewhere,

Will make themselves rich on his flowers’ sweets.

I count the tramp as noble as that man

Who lives in idleness on wealth bequeathed,

And far more wise than yon old thinking fool.

Show me one happier than the tramp who has

His belly full, and good boots not too tight.

His careless heart has buried kin that live,

Those that have died he resurrects no more.

He does not know the farmer’s spiteful joy,

Who, envying his near neighbour, laughs to see

The wild birds knock that man’s fruit blossoms down;

He does not laugh to spite a bachelor,

As mothers do, that hear their babies scream.

We scorn the men that toil , as deep sea men

Scorn those that sail on shallow lakes and streams-

Yet by our civil tongues we live and thrive.

Our tongues may be a venomous as those

Small flies that make the lazy oxen leap;

Like a ship’s parrot I maybe could swear;

Like a ship’s monkey for my cunning tricks-

But I have found a gently uttered lie

And civil tongue sufficient for my ends;

For we can find excuse for our escape-

As rats and mice pursued can find dark holes.

Is there a sound more cheerful than the tramp’s

“Good morning, sir”?  For in that sound he puts

His whole heart’s gratitude that you do work

And sweat, and then make sacrifice for him.

His lips do whine, but how his heart does laugh!

To think that he is free to roam at will,

While others toil to keep that thing “Respect,”

Which makes them starve- if they become like him.

If I hear not my belly’s voice, nor feel

The cold; if I toil not for other men-

I ask no more; contented with my bread

Ten times outweighing meat, and water fresh.

When I this morn did beg a rich man’s house,

“Go to the bees, thou sluggard” –he replied.

“And to the devil, you” –I answered him.

Then stood and cursed him, worse than farmer when

He sees the Crows turn his green meadow black.

Go to the bees, thou sluggard!  Me!  From him!

And must I be a slave, like thousands more,

To rise before the Sun, and go- in spite

Of fog, rain, wind or hail- to serve his like?

And if perchance I’m hungry at my work,

I still must fast until a certain hour;

If I am sleepy still, when I should rise,

I must not sleep, but up and work for him!

Nature gave me no extra bone for this;

The rich man cannot know the poor man’s life-

No more than hands, that are unwiped and wet,

Can feel if clothes are dry.  Go, sluggard, work!

It makes me laugh; Care has them soon her slaves

Who dream of duty to their fellow men,

And set a value on each passing hour.

If rich men are the winter’s kings, the kings

Of summer are true beggars- that be sure.

Then, happy beggars can recline on stones

With more content than lords sit cushioned chairs;

Their pleasant houses are the leafy trees,

Whose floors are carpeted with grass or moss;

They sleep upon the new-mown hay at night,

And in the daytime to their liking mix

The sun and shade. Oft in forsaken house-

Where spirits drove the living out-they sleep;

Ghosts cannot deal with beggars bold, who have

Less reverence than the spiders that weave webs

Inside the sacred nostrils of a joss.

And see our health; we live on sun and air,

Plain food and water, and outlive rich men,

With all their physic, wines and cleanliness.

Ah, cleanliness! That strikes a woeful note

To those poor tramps that seek the workhouse oft,

That fear to beg, and should be working men;

For, after they have ta’en a workhouse bath,

And their clothes cleaned, how lonely they must feel

When all the fleas that tickled them are dead.

Of Death-who still surprises foolish men,

As though he came but yesterday-the tramp

Thinks not; or takes a little laugh at Death

Ere Death grins everlastingly at him.

The happy tramp cares not if he doth lie

At last between white sheets or on cows' dung.

He has no squeamish taste: he could almost

Eat things alive, in little bits, like birds-

Or lick the streets like Turkey's sacred dogs.

Ah 'dogs! that strikes another woeful note.

Many a village have I left through them,

When one had cause- or thought he had- to bark,

And in a while a score of others joined,

Barking because he barked, and nothing more,

And hungry I have had to leave that place.

Some dogs will bite; those small dogs with big heads-

It is the size of these dogs' heads we fear,

And not so much how big their bodies are.

If one thing spoils our life it is the dog.

Now, wherefore should I work my flesh or mind?

I knew Will Davies well; a beggar once,

Till he went mad and started writing books.

Nature, I swear, did ne'er commit worse crime

Than when she gives out genius to the poor;

He is a leper every man would shun;

A lighthouse fast upon the rocks of Want,

To warn men, with his light, to keep away;

And so they do-as far as body goes-

So that they may not witness his distress,

But still they pester him from distant parts.

A beggar’s body has far better friends

In nibbling fleas that will not let him sleep,

Than any people's poet whose soul has

More friends than wanted, but scarce one

Real friend to question how his body fares.

Fame's like a nightingale, so sweet at first,

Whose voice soon like a common frog doth croak,

Until we wonder if we hear the same sweet bird.

I cannot see at all why I should work

My mind or body for this cruet world-

I'm no mad poet, like the one I name.

'Tis work, work, work-in every place; it haunts

Me like a painted lady whose sad eyes

Can watch us still, whichever way we look.

Now, let me eat; here's cake, and bread and jam-

I wonder if there's butter in between.

And here's a Christian journal a kind dame

Wrapped round the food to help my happy soul.

What! here's a poem by the poet-tramp.

Out, life of care!

Man lives to fret

For some vain thing

He cannot get.

The Cities crave

Green solitude;

The Country craves

A multitude.

Man lives to want;

The rich man's lot

Is to want things

The poor know not.

And no man dies

But must look back

With sorrow on

His own past track.

If beggar has

No child or wife,

He, of all men,

Enjoys most life.

When rich men loathe

Their meat and wine,

He thinks dry bread

And water fine.

When Fame's as sick

As Failure is,

He snores on straw,

In quiet bliss.

A truthful song, but 'twill not pay his rent.

An English poet! Where's the milk? Me-aw!

If he would thrive, let him be false as hell,

And bow-wow fierce at France or Germany.

What makes us tramps the happiest of all men?

Our hearts are free of envy, care and greed.

The miser thinks the Sun has not one flower

As fair as his gold heap the dark has grown;

He trembles if the Moon at night comes through

His lattice, with her silver of no worth;

True beggars laugh at him, and do not shake

With greed, like rats that hear a glutton eat,

When they behold a man more richly clad.

Nay, let plain food but keep their bellies tight,

And they will envy none their cloth or land.