The Lamentation of the Old Pensioner

I had a chair at every hearth, When no one turned to see, With ‘Look at that old fellow there, And who may he be?’ And therefore do I wander now, And the fret lies on me.

The road-side trees keep murmuring: Ah, wherefore murmur ye, As in the old days long gone by, Green oak and poplar tree? The well-known faces are all gone And the fret lies on me.