A poor old Man, foot-founder'd and alone,
Thus urgent spoke, in Trouble's genuine tone:
‘ My pretty Maid, if happiness you seek,
May disappointment never fade your cheek!—
Your's be the joy;— yet, feel another's woe;
O leave some little, gift before you go.’
His words struck home; and back she turn'd again,
( The ready friend of indigence and pain,)
To banish hunger from his shatter'd frame;
And close behind her, lo, the Miller, came,
With Jug in hand, and cried,‘ GEORGE, why such haste?
Here, take a draught; and let that Soldier taste.’
‘ Thanks for your bounty, Sir,’ the Veteran said;
Threw down his Wallet, and made bare his head;
And straight began, though mix'd with doubts and fears,
Th’ unprefac'd History of his latter years,
‘ I cross'd th’ Atlantic with our Regiment, brave,
Where Sickness sweeps whole Regiments to the grave;