A mother sick, a father dead,
And children, left forlorn, unfed,
His hand ne'er ventur'd on his purse
To give relief, and, what was worse,
He would alarm the wretches' fears
With beadles fierce and overseers,
Or talk of laws for vagrants made,
Which call the scourge-man to their aid.
Thus nought was look'd for at his hands,
But justice strict to just demands: