Here in this ditch I'll breathe my last;
Weary, infirm, and old -- 'tis past.
"He's drunk," the lookers-on will swear;
Let them, so they their pity spare!
Some turn their heads as on they go;
Some a few pence in passing throw--
Off to the fete, haste, quickly fly;
Old vagabond, alone, without you I can die!

Yes, of old age I die; for now,
That hunger kills us, none allow.
I hoped some hospital might cheer
The close of my forlorn career:
But all are full; each refuge shows,
By crowds within, the people's woes.
The street, alas! my nurse -- 'tis right,
Old vagabond, to die where first I saw the light!

In youth, to artisans I made
Request, that I might learn their trade:
"Go, work is scarce," thus would they say,
"For us ourselves; go, beg your way!"
Ye rich! who bade me work, a bone
Oft from your feasts for me was thrown:
I found your straw the best of beds;
Old vagabond, my curse is not upon your heads!

I might, poor wretch, have stolen; no!
'Twere better I should begging go;
At most the apple was my prey,
That ripening hung beside the way:
Still, twenty times, in dungeon hard,
In the King's name, have I been barred;
Of treasures I possessed but one--
Old vagabond, alas! they robbed me of the sun!

What country's his who poor is born,
What are to me your wines, your corn,
Your glory, your industrious skill,
Your speakers who your councils fill?
The stranger fattened in your halls--
You opened to his arms your walls--
Fool that I was, tears then to shed:
Old vagabond, his hand was wont to give me bread!

Why, as some noxious insect, then,
Did ye not crush me, sons of men?
Ah! rather should I have been taught
What good for man I might have wrought!
Sheltered, and adverse winds allayed,
Soon had the worm an ant been made;
My brethren I had loved--but no--
Old vagabond, I die, yes, yes, I die your foe!