“Lend us the loan of a halfpenny, sir!” —
And he passed with his splendid nose in the air.
A gaunt, grey carcase of skin and bones,
As cold as the river, as hard as the stones.
To him the highway was table and bed,
Shift for the newborn and sheet for the dead.
The wind that blew from Beola crest
Seemed fire to fetter his wild unrest.
The rain that beat on his neck and face,
A goad to quicken him in his pace.
But sorrow a step he changed, and his prayer
Was still — “Lend us the loan of a halfpenny, sir!”