The Weavers

Many a time your father gave me aid
When I was down, and now I'm down again:
You mustn't take it bad or be dismayed
Because I say, young folk should help old men
And 'tis their duty to do that: Amen!

I have no cows, no sheep, no cloak, no hat,
For those who used to give me things are dead
And my luck died with them: because of that
I won't pay you a farthing, but, instead,
I'll owe you till the dead rise from the dead.

A farthing! that's not much, but, all the same,
I haven't half a farthing, for that grand
Big idiot called Fortune rigged the game
And gave me nothing, while she filled the hand
Of every stingy devil in the land.

You weave, and I: you shirts: I weave instead
My careful verse, but you get paid at times!
The only rap I get is on my head:
But should it come again that men like rhymes
And pay for them, I'll pay you for your shirt.