He has no hat, so no hat may he don;

He wears no boots, for they have long since gone.

Three hours before the dawn, unwashen, cold,

He sees a dark cloud gather, fold on fold.

And soon the rain in pelting drops descends

Upon the wretch who has no home nor friends.

He looks upon his bare feet, and, with tears,

“Mother!” he cries, “behold the toll of years!

“Why was I born, or why didst thou not shrink

From giving me my will—freedom to drink?