Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door;
Whose days are dwindling to the shortest span;
Oh! give relief and heaven will bless your store.
These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak,
These hoary locks proclaim my lengthened years;
And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek,
Has been the channel to a flood of tears.
Yon house, erected on the rising ground,
With tempting aspect drew me from my road;