Here in this ditch, I'll end Life's day;
I die infirm, and old, and worn;
'He's drunk !' the passers-by will say;
'T is well; they will not need to mourn.
Some turn their heads; a few at least;
From others a few sous are thrown;
Run quickly, hasten to the feast! --
Old vagabond, sure I can die alone.
 
Yes, here I perish of old age,
For one of hunger never dies;
I hoped th' asylum would assuage,
At least, my dying agonies.
But every ward is full, and worse,
So many people are forlorn!
The street, alas, was my first nurse.
Old vagabond, I'll die where I was born.
 
To laborers I in youth applied;
Teach me, I said, some honest trade;
"Scarce can we for ourselves provide;
Go beg !" was the reply they made.
"Work !" said the rich. Some bones to gnaw
I had from you, I will allow;
'Tis true, I slept upon your straw.
Old vagabond, I will not curse you now.
 
I could have stolen, I, poor wretch;
But no, I rather chose to be
A beggar; or, at most, to catch
An apple from the wayside tree.
A score of times on me they drew
The prison bolts, by king's decree;
They stole the only wealth I knew;
Old vagabond, the sun's, at least, for me.
 
A country -- has the poor man one?
For me, what have your grain and wine,
Your industry and glory done?
Your throngs of orators divine?
Ah, when the armies of the foe
Were fattening on your open lands,
How like a fool my tears did flow!
Old vagabond, they fed me from their hands.
 
Men, will you crush me like a worm,
Made but to injure and corrode?
Oh, rather you my life should form
To labor for the general good.
When sheltered from the adverse wind,
The worm into the ant will grow;
I would have cherished all mankind.
Old vagabond! Alas! I die your foe!