The pauper at length makes a noise in the world.
“Rattle his bones over the stones;
He’s only a pauper, whom nobody owns!” ...
You bumpkin, who stare at your brother conveyed;
Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid,
And be joyful to think, when by death you’re laid low
You’ve a chance to the grave like a gemman to go.
“Rattle his bones over the stones;
He’s only a pauper, whom nobody owns!”
But a truce to this strain—for my soul it is sad,