Endless bounty,
knows no yield;
in rotting garbage,
or fertile field.

Atop the hill,
daily bread is carved.
While down in the valley,
I wander and starve.

Taking shelter,
in the moors and heath.
I shiver and struggle,
to find comfort or sleep.

Dusk soon fades,
the sky jet-black and stark.
My bed of peat,
dew drops, and marsh.

Morning sun:
scorching and cruel.
I hope for a morsel,
some water or gruel.

I saunter weary,
eyes sunken and hollow.
The world is alive,
the birds chorus I follow.

Spared from the sun,
under a thicket or copse.
Sharp pangs of hunger
choke out all hope

Such a fortune given,
so ill a fate.
Forlorn and  wretched,
is forever my state

With strength from the Heavens,
I crawl to your door.
You greet this sad beggar,
with contempt and scorn.

I ask for salvation,
eyes hopeful and glazed.
But I am given no shelter,
nor provision, or grace.

Cast out in the rain,
sodden and cold.
My limbs are weary,
My mind in tumult.

Providence! provide,
Heed my desperate prayer!
Above the stars shine,
my refugee from despair.

I await my death,
If God's grace would bestow;
but I awaken again,
with hunger in tow.

Again I venture,
to your door for fare.
But another has answered,
and pushes back my hair.

Face caked with dirt,
streaked with hot tears,
they run down my cheeks
like raindrops so clear.

My shawl drenched,
my garments of grime.
I'm given bread and milk,
a warm fire and wine.

I am thankful to them, and my Lord,
to have a bed, dry shoes,
fresh clothing, and chores.

New days are ahead!
Such joy and ardor.
No longer do I rest,
in the heath or the moor.