Poem by 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.

1. The Pet Lamb
2. The Horn of Egremont Castle
3. Strange Fits of Passion
4. Louisa
5. The Childless Father

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