The Homeless Man

 

Wake up yon wretch in rags,

Remove such filthy bags

From doorsteps clean enough:

Seems like some shaming stuff

That scavengers must take

Early, ere people wake.

 

The homeless man his mind

Is like old Autumn's wind,

Who here and there in doubt

Doth cast his leaves about,

Against high banks some thrown,

And some in water blown.

 

So with the homeless one;

The law must move him on,

For did he sit to sleep

He might fall in Death's deep-

So shocking to the eye

Of decent passers-by.

 

A tunnel traveller he:

No sight of sunny lea

No bursting to the light;

This traveller of the night,

No glimpse of heaven doth know-

But woe, for ever woe.

 

A trespasser is he,

Wherever others see:

The child would pelt his bones,

As one-they'd hurl their stones-

With homeless dog or cat,

And only fear stops that.

 

With prayer-books in their hand,

Where beggar takes his stand,

Church people hurry past;

Perchance one comes at last

With jug to fetch some ale,

He'll hear the beggar's tale.

 

Six butterflies takes hours

To suck such sweets from flowers

As one bee in less time:

Work's want is beggar's crime;

Who'll give employ to one

Worn to a rag and bone?