THE POOR BOWLMAN’S REMONSTRANCE __ THROUGH winter’s cold, and summer’s heat, I earn my scanty fare, From morn till night, along the
street I cry my earthen
ware: Then, O let pity sway your
souls! And mock not that decrepitude, Which draws me from my solitude To cry my plates and
bowls. From thoughtless youth, I often
brook The trick and taunt of scorn, And though indiff’rence marks
my look, My heart with grief is torn: Then, O let pity sway your
souls! Nor sneer contempt in passing by; Nor mock, derisive while I cry, Come buy my plates and bowls. The Potter moulds the passive clay, To all the forms
you see; And that same pow’r that formed you, Hath likewise fashion’d me: Then, O let pity sway your
souls!-- Though needy, poor as poor can be, I stoop not to
your charity, But
cry my plates and bowls.* *When decrepitude incapacitates a brother of humanity
from gaining a subsistence by any of the less
dishounourable callings, and when he possesses that independency of soul which
disdains living on charity, it is certainly refinement in barbarity to hurt the
feelings of such a one. —The above was written on seeing the boys plaguing
little Johny the Bowlman, while some who thought themselves men were reckoning it excellent sport. |