Page:The cry for justice - an anthology of the literature of social protest. - (IA cryforjusticea00sinc).pdf/723

 You bumpkin, who stare at your brother conveyed; Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid, And be joyful to think, when by death you're laid low You've a chance to the grave like a gemman to go. "Rattle his bones over the stones; He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!"

But a truce to this strain—for my soul it is sad, To think that a heart in humanity clad Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end, And depart from the light without leaving a friend. Bear softly his bones over the stones; Though a pauper, he's one whom his Maker yet owns.

Complaint to My Empty Purse

(See page 423)

To you, my purse, and to none other wight Complain I, for ye be my lady dear! I am so sorry, now that ye be light; For certès, but ye make me heavy cheer, Me were as lief be laid upon my bier; For which unto your mercy thus I cry: Be heavy again, or elles might I die!

Now voucheth safe this day, or it be night, That I of you the blissful sound may hear, Or see your colour like the sun bright That of yellowness had never a peer. Ye be my life, ye be my hertes stere, Queen of comfort and of good company: Be heavy again, or elles might I die!