Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE POOR MAN'S PROVINCE, by JOHN WRIGHT (1708-1727)



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE POOR MAN'S PROVINCE, by                    
First Line: I rose betimes to go I knew not where
Last Line: Of his poor flock, I shall not be undone.
Subject(s): Poverty


I ROSE betimes to go I knew not where,
By eventide I found that I was there;
And as I went I fell upon a strand,
Where all men do obey, but none command.I asked the name of this unpleasant
shore;
They said, 'It is the Province of the Poor,
And lies upon the coast of Want and Wrong,
Which you will find as you do pass along.'
I went on still an easy country-jog,
But presently I met a dismal fog,
Which grew so dark I could not see my way,
And made me fall upon my knees to pray.
Before I did begin, I looked about
To see if I could spy a cushion out;
But there, alas! was nothing to be found
But sighs and sobs upon the naked ground.
I thought 'twas something hard, but yet at last
I did conclude to stay, night came so fast;
And when I thought I would refresh my soul,
The country yielded neither fish nor fowl.
So nature being weary sought to please
Itself with sleep, but there was little ease;
For lying down upon a felt'red flock,
It yielded to me like a flinty rock.
The morning came, the sun went on his race,
But pinching wants appeared in ev'ry place.
There was a talk of plenty that was nigh,
But still the people had no cash to buy.
Abundance of good things went up and down,
And choice provisions passèd through the town;
Yet those that livèd there could do no more
Than just behold them running past the door.
Whilst I was forcèd here to make abode,
I found old rags and tatters alamode;
And those that got new clothes never had
A penny for their old, they were so bad.
Charcoal and billet never touch their fire,
Such costly things they must not once desire;
'Tis well if they can get some fuel in
By flaying of the earth, to burn its skin.
Rich carpets and fine hangings don't become
Their drooping cottages, yet they have some
Resemblance of such glory on their walls,
Where cobwebs hang, and spiders get their falls.
Instead of silver plate, an earthen dish,
And little there to put, except a wish
Of some such dainties as the rich enjoy,
Whilst hope and hunger do their peace destroy.
I saw no feasting all the time I stayed,
But now and then there is a visit paid,
To tell each other they are very poor,
A story which they knew too well before.
When straits are very great they often try
To beg or borrow, which will best comply
With those to whom they make their sad address,
But when they borrow much, they pay the less.
When they fall out, they'll speak as big as those
Who have it in their hands for to oppose;
But after all, no Chanc'ry suits they know,
For they are fain to end it all below.
There is no trading here, for trade must trust,
And trust they can't, for then their starving must
Come next in place, so they are bound to live
Upon the crumbs which God doth daily give.
Would they be frugal, they have naught to spare,
So their condition doth impede their care;
To spin out nothing is the strangest pull,
And none can do't, for nothing hath no wool.
And some designing men, who love their gold,
Ride through this province, as I have been told,
To grind the faces of these wretched souls,
Whilst they themselves drink wine in lusty bowls.
When I was mounted for to come away,
Behind a bush I heard one of them say,
'Christ, and a crust, Lord, sanctify to me;
Can I be poor who have a right to thee?'
At this my heart began to leap indeed,
For now I thought grace might consist with need;
And if the Lord be pleased to make me one
Of his poor flock, I shall not be undone.





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