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"They say me: -Thou shinest a light to mankind * With thy lore as

the night which the Moon doth uplight! I answer, "A truce to your

jests and your gibes; * Without luck what is learning?-a

poor-devil wight! If they take me to pawn with my lore in my

pouch, * With my volumes to read and my ink-case to write, For

one day's provision they never could pledge me; * As likely on

Doomsday to draw bill at sight:" How poorly, indeed, doth it fare

wi' the poor, * With his pauper existence and beggarly plight: In

summer he faileth provision to find; * In winter the fire-pot's

his only delight: The street-dogs with bite and with bark to him

rise, * And each losel receives him with bark and with bite: If

he lift up his voice and complain of his wrong, * None pities or

heeds him, however he's right; And when sorrows and evils like

these he must brave * His happiest homestead were down in the

grave."