God's pity on poor kings,
They know no gentle rest;
The North and South cry out,
Cries come from East and West —
“Come, open this new Dock,
Building, Bazaar or Fair.”
Lord, what a wretched life
Such men must bear.
They're followed, watched and spied,
No liberty they know;
Some eye will watch them still,
No matter where they go.
When in green lanes I muse,
Alone, and hear birds sing,
God's pity then, say I,
On some poor king.