THE LAMENTATION OF THE OLD PENSIONER
I had a chair at every hearth,
When no one turned to see,
With ‘Look at that old fellow there,
And who may he be?’
And therefore do I wander now,
And the fret lies on me.
The road-side trees keep murmuring:
Ah, wherefore murmur ye,
As in the old days long gone by,
Green oak and poplar tree?
The well-known faces are all gone
And the fret lies on me.