I hate that Andrew Jones; he'll breed <br />His children up to waste and pillage. <br />I wish the press-gang or the drum <br />With its tantara sound would come, <br />And sweep him from the village! <br /> <br />I said not this, because he loves <br />Through the long day to swear and tipple; <br />But for the poor dear sake of one <br />To whom a foul deed he had done, <br />A friendless man, a travelling cripple! <br /> <br />For this poor crawling helpless wretch, <br />Some horseman who was passing by, <br />A penny on the ground had thrown; <br />But the poor cripple was alone <br />And could not stoop--no help was nigh. <br /> <br />Inch-thick the dust lay on the ground <br />For it had long been droughty weather; <br />So with his staff the cripple wrought <br />Among the dust till he had brought <br />The half-pennies together. <br /> <br />It chanced that Andrew passed that way <br />Just at the time; and there he found <br />The cripple in the mid-day heat <br />Standing alone, and at his feet <br />He saw the penny on the ground. <br /> <br />He stopped and took the penny up: <br />And when the cripple nearer drew, <br />Quoth Andrew, "Under half-a-crown, <br />What a man finds is all his own, <br />And so, my Friend, good-day to you." <br /> <br />And 'hence' I said, that Andrew's boys <br />Will all be trained to waste and pillage; <br />And wished the press-gang, or the drum <br />With its tantara sound, would come <br />And sweep him from the village.<br /><br />William Wordsworth<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/andrew-jones/
