Poor Will Poem by Robert Anderson

See'st thou the gay mansion that stands on yon hill,
With gardens before and behind?
There once stood the cottage of poor peasant Will,
But Fortune--Ah she was unkind!
My father, God save him, there toiled for his bread,
Till age saw him tott'ring decay:
Misfortune soon made me give up the dear shed,
And forc'd me a soldier away!

Of many a slaught'ring campaign I might tell,
Where fame leads weak man to the field;
Of many a battle, where brave comrades fell,
For to death ev'n the bravest must yield!
Now old, poor, and feeble, I beg at the spot,
And mark the dear groves with a sigh;
In vain have I sought the remains of my cot,
Where grandeur but meets my dim eye!

A nabob from India is lord of the hill--
A slave to his ill--gotten gold;
But happier they tell me, is old beggar Will,
Who nightly seeks shelter from cold:
For he rests not, 'tis said; and each day at his gate,
The wretched ask pity, in vain;
But Will, in a barn, can sleep fearless of fate,
Undisturbed by the wind or the rain.

Tho' friendless, tho' wretched, why should I repine?
A tear gives no comfort to me:
If want be the only companion of mine,
From that, death will soon set me free!
Then stranger, I pray thee, a halfpenny spare,
And Heav'n will a blessing bestow;
For the heart that a beggar's distress loves to share,
The greatest of pleasures must know!