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!