Hail Poverty! in tatter'd weeds array'd;
The scorn of wealth, and all the gay--deck'd crowd;
Oft by thy sons despis'd,
Who bow to pride.

Tho' in thy train, the spectre, care, appears,
With wrinkl'd sorrow, pale--fac'd misery,
These haunt the costly pile,
Where grandeur dwells.

Then wherefore shall men shudder at thy name,
Unmindful of the fix'd decrees of fate?
To Him who rules on high,
We all must bow.

Death waits alike the portals of the great,
And the craz'd cottage. Virtue makes us blest;
And when she deigns to smile,
She ne'er deceives.

No foe art thou to genius. They whose names
Immortal live, high on the rolls of fame,
Companions were of thine,
Yet died in peace.

What Bard than Dryden tun'd more sweet the lyre?
And who like Otway call'd forth pity's tear?
Still Butler's humour gives
To laughter birth.

While seasons roll, and nature speeds her course,
While liberty shall swell the virtuous breast,
Still Thomson's classic lays
New praise will claim!

While Scotia's sons shall harmony admire,
The mournful dirge sublime, the past'ral song,
The magic verse of Burns
Mankind shall charm!

Erin, dear Isle! of courts the scorn, the scourge!
Long as the shamrock marks thy fertile vales,
Thy Goldsmith's name shall rise,
A country's pride!

Hail Poverty! the wisest, and the best
Of Kings, to whom our dearest rights we owe,
With thee enjoy'd content,
In lowly guise.

The arts, the sciences, thou ne'er forsak'st;
Thy sons, industrious, claim our nation's care;
Their deeds on land and main,
The world well knows.

Let not proud mortals cast a scornful sneer
At toil--worn brethren, still their chief support;
The lordling and the slave
Bow to the tomb!

Unwelcome visitor, by millions deem'd,
Like day's bright orb thou'rt to no state confin'd;
Where'er man treads the earth,
There art thou found.

My parents, kindred, still own'd thee a guest:
Thou rock'd my cradle; watch'd my youthful years;
And now, in life's decline,
Attend'st me still.

Tho' dark the prospect of my future days,
Unfriended traveller in this dreary vale;
Blest with the Muse and health,
I'll ne'er repine.

Then, hail! companion of life's chequer'd scenes,
Who ne'er forsook me, nor wert e'er despis'd;
With thee I've liv'd in peace,
With thee must die!