"And wherefore do the poor complain?"
The rich man ask'd of me:
"Come, walk abroad with me," I said,
"And I will answer thee."
'Twas evening, and the frozen streets
Were cheerless to behold;
And we were wrapp'd and coated well,
And yet we were a-cold.
We met an old, bareheaded man,
His locks were thin and white;
I ask'd him what he did abroad
In that cold winter's night.
The cold was keen, indeed, he said—
But at home no fire had he;
And therefore he had come abroad
To ask for charity.
We met a young barefooted child,
And she begged loud and bold;
I asked her what she did abroad
When the wind it blew so cold.
She said her father was at home,
And he lay sick abed;
And therefore was it she was sent
Abroad to beg for bread.
We saw a woman sitting down
Upon a stone to rest;
She had a baby at her back,
And another at her breast.
I ask'd her why she loiter'd there,
When the night-wind was so chill;
She turn'd her head, and bade the child
That scream'd behind, be still—
Then told us that her husband served,
A soldier, far away;
And therefore to her parish she
Was begging back her way.
I turn'd me to the rich man then,
For silently stood he;
"You ask'd me why the poor complain
And these have answer'd thee!"