Уильям Вордсворт (William Wordsworth)

Andrew Jones

I hate that Andrew Jones: he'll breed
His children up to waste and pillage:
I wish the press-gang, or the drum
Would, with its rattling music, come—
And sweep him from the village.

I said not this, because he loves
Through the long day to swear and tipple;
But for the poor dear sake of one
To whom a foul deed he had done,
A friendless man, a travelling Cripple.

For this poor crawling helpless wretch
Some Horseman, who was passing by,
A penny on the ground had thrown;
But the poor Cripple was alone,
And could not stoop—no help was nigh.

Inch-thick the dust lay on the ground,
For it had long been droughty weather:
So with his staff the Cripple wrought
Among the dust, till he had brought
The halfpennies together.

It chanced that Andrew passed that way
Just at the time; and there he found
The Cripple in the mid-day heat
Standing alone, and at his feet
He saw the penny on the ground.

He stooped and took the penny up:
And when the Cripple nearer drew,
Quoth Andrew, "Under half-a-crown,
What a man finds is all his own;
And so, my friend, good day to you."

And hence I say, that Andrew's boys
Will all be trained to waste and pillage;
And wished the press-gang or the drum
Would, with its rattling music, come—
And sweep him from the village.