But now I droop in poverty forlorn,
And mourn the triumphs of my youthful days.
Frowning the soldier told his piteous tale,
Ah! what to him the humbled pride of Spain?
He help’d to conquer, what does it avail?
He now is left to poverty and pain.
Forever blessed be the bounteous heart,
That may the suppliant child of woe receive,
The blessings favouring fortune gave impart,
To me that fortune gives but to relieve.