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XIV.
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.
