Song of The Poor Man's Pilgrim

Creaking bones in creaking shoes

  Brought an old man o'er

   The creaking floor,

  Creakingly,

  With creaking knees.

   Opened he

    The creaking door.

"O!" he groaned,

  In a creaking voice,

"Were I as I once was,

   As yon young boys

   That play carelessly

   With such joyful noise

   As a childish laugh

   And a sing-song voice!

  I should not be hoarse.

"Could I flit

   And could I play

   And could I dance around all day

   And skip about in the child's way!

I should not be so sore.

"Were I less sore

  Then I could gather

   And I could store

"And could I store

  I would have more.

   I should not be poor.

"Were I not poor

   There'd be no creaking roof

   Or creaking floor,

    No creaking walls

    And no creaking door

"And I'd live well:

My house wouldn't swell

"When it storms

  And the rain pours

  When the wind roars

  And when Heaven is cut

  By Lightning's Sword!

"O! if it were.

"But it is not:

   "I am cold and poor

    I am old and sore.

     I've no food in store

    I've a creaky house

     With a creaky roof

     And a creaky floor

     And creaky walls

     And a creaky door...

"Ah, it is not," Said he,

    Sighing in his misery,

    Addressing no one particularly.

    He spoke not to anyone

     Or anything,

    So was surprised to hear a woman sing!

Her words were these:

                        "I see How poor are ye

                              How ever sad, and ever hungry.

                           Ye are old and sore,