Place names--Bell ringing for lost travellers--A Robber's Grave
and its story--Wild Wales--A picturesque interior--The fascination
of the moors--Machynlleth--A Royal and ancient house--Ten miles of
beauty--Aberdovey--Tramps and their ways--The poetical tramp.
Out of Craven Arms I took the fine old coach road that leads to
Shrewsbury, intent on seeing Church Stretton on the way, for I had
heard much in praise of the scenery round about that quiet little
Shropshire town. From my map I gathered that the road for some miles
went between high hills, and so promised me a pleasant drive, for I am
a lover of hills.
Of the ten miles or so on to Church Stretton one spot alone now
comes back distinctly to my memory, a spot where I was sadly tempted
to desert the broad highway for a tempting lane that led westward
into a mystery of moorlands. I had some difficulty in resisting the
temptation, but I desired to see Church Stretton. For once I had a
definite destination before me, yet I almost wished I had not, for it
robbed me of my freedom.
First we came to Little Stretton, where we had for company the ancient
Roman Watling Street with its parvenu follower, the railway. I wonder
will the railway endure as long as the Roman road has done! Soon
afterwards we found ourselves in Church Stretton, with the green
hills rising grandly around and forming a pleasant background to the
straggling, old-fashioned town built along the sides of the highway;
hence, possibly, its name is derived from Street Town, but this is
mere guessing, and in guessing you sometimes go sadly wrong, as I
found out once when I deemed I was certainly right. In Sussex there
are two villages not very far apart--one is called Friston, the other
Alfriston. Now I jumped to the conclusion that Alfriston meant Old
Friston, to distinguish it from the younger village; but a learned
antiquary would have none of my guessing, he declaring that Alfriston
stood for Alfric's tun or town, it having been given by the king to one
Alfric, lord of the manor, who gave the place his name.
At Church Stretton we tarried a time, but I am not going to describe
the familiar; the guide-book writers have written fully of the place.
I do not desire to enter into a needless competition with them. Merely
will I say that those who love hill rambles and scrambles will not be
disappointed with the country round about Church Stretton, for it is
a pedestrian's paradise. The churchyard there contains one or more
curious epitaphs; that to Ann Cook, who died in 1814, runs:
On a Thursday she was born,
On a Thursday made a bride,
On a Thursday broke her leg,
And on a Thursday died.
In old times I was told the church bell was rung on foggy days and
nights, as a guide to the town for travellers who might be lost on the
hills around; now they are not so thoughtful for the fate of befogged
wayfarers. Not that I think that the ringing of a bell is really of
much guidance under such circumstances, for once I lost myself on the
South Downs in as dense a fog as well could be, and though I heard some
church bells in the distance faintly ringing, I could not make out with
any certainty from what direction the sound of the bells came; in truth
they rather confused than helped me.
On to Shrewsbury a change gradually came over the scenery; we left
the hills behind and entered into a pleasantly undulating, pastoral
country. We dallied not in Shrewsbury, but drove straight through that
ancient and interesting town, for who that professes to know his own
country knows not Shrewsbury by the winding Severn side? My object was
not to revisit places I knew full well, however attractive these places
might be; I was in search of the fresh and the unfamiliar.
Being at Shrewsbury, after a glance at my map I suddenly made up my
mind to strike from there right through the heart of Central Wales to
Aberdovey and the sea, steering, roughly, a westerly course as the
roads permitted. A longing to get a glimpse of wild Wales had taken
possession of me, to refresh my eyes by a sight of its tumbling rivers,
foaming falls, lone mountains, and heathery boulder-strewn moors.
Then this portion of Wales being out of the general tourist beat, I
looked forward to seeing it in its native simplicity. I would I could
have seen North Wales in the days of David Cox before the railway
and the cheap tripper had invaded and vulgarised it, the days when
Bettws-y-Coed was a poor and primitive village, before the "Royal Oak"
there--then the haunt of tweed-clad artists and cheery anglers--was
converted from a homely little inn into a flourishing hotel where
noisy tourists mostly congregate. I am afraid I am a selfish man,
for, amongst the mountains, the only company I crave is the landscape
painter, the honest angler, and the weather-beaten shepherd; these are
in unobtrusive harmony with their surroundings, and claim their part in
it from ancient right.
Crossing the Welsh Bridge at Shrewsbury, we followed, for some long
way, a winding road through a country given over to farming; a country
of fields, hedgerows, and growing crops, of sleepy hamlets and stray
farmsteads; idyllic but unexciting. Still, there were peeps of hills
and the promise of wilder things in the vague beyond to which we were
bound. No amount of disappointment robs the beyond of its glamour, for
the unknown unfailingly attracts, the disenchantment of to-day may
be followed by the surprise of to-morrow. Yet distance is but a gay
deceiver; where we may be at any moment, is not that the delectable
distance to others far away? "The delusion that distance creates
contiguity destroys."
We kept steering a westerly course to the best of our ability, and
on the whole we succeeded in doing so fairly well, trusting to
arrive somehow and at some time at Aberdovey. Who has not heard of
the sweet bells of Aberdovey?--I know not whether they ring sweetly
still, for no bells rang for us when we were there. For many miles
the scenery, though pleasant enough, was devoid of special character,
but as we progressed the country grew wilder and the villages lost
their indefinable English look; we had not arrived in Wales, but we
were nearing the borderland. Long Mountain rose grandly to our right,
clear cut as a Grecian statue against the sky, and to our left the
curiously-shaped range of hills known as the Stipperstones stood
prominently forth, their summits broken by huge rugged rocks, "the
fragments of an earlier world," that stand boldly forth from them.
According to a local legend, at times on stormy nights "Wild Edric,"
an ancient warrior chief, may be seen riding in the air above the
Stipperstones, and when he is seen it forebodes some calamity. Give me
the West Country for legends! I have heard of ghostly huntsmen with
their yeth-hounds being seen there; of ghostly highwaymen; of headless
horsemen who pursue lone travellers at night on lonely roads; of the
ghosts of men and horses who once a year, on the anniversary of the
battle of Sedgemoor, may be heard a-galloping away from that fatal
field; and of the Devil himself riding across country, whose horse
once cast a shoe, when the Devil called at a blacksmith's to have it
re-shod, and how the blacksmith declared he caught a glimpse of his
Satanic majesty's cloven foot beneath his cloak--and this within the
memory of living man!
Most singular is the formation of the Stipperstones. Of course there
are sundry legends to account for these gigantic rocks that strew the
crests of the hills, as though some cyclopean city had been ruined
there, and the Devil plays a prominent part in all. How busy the Devil
appears to have been in England during the old days! I call to mind
the Devil's Leap, the Devil's Dyke, the Devil's Bridge, the Devil's
Punch Bowl, the Devil's Stone, the Devil's Den, the Devil's Frying-pan,
and many another spot named after him. The one sin of idleness cannot
be placed at his door. Then as we drove on Marton Mere, church, and
village made a pleasant diversion, and shortly afterwards the tiny
old town of Montgomery came into view, climbing the steep hillside,
with its ruined castle above, and tumble of hills beyond. From this
point Montgomery presents such a picture as Turner loved to paint--a
prominent castle, grey and old, a sleepy little town below, with dreamy
hills beyond, and a winding road leading the eye towards them.
When last I was at Montgomery--let me see, that was over twenty long
years ago. Alas, how time flies! Still, however I may have changed,
the old town looks to me just as it did then; it is one of those
delightful, remote places that never seem to change, let the outer
world wag as it will--Well, twenty years or so ago the clerk (may he
be alive and as well as I!) showed me the Robber's Grave in a quiet
corner of the churchyard there, a grave on which no grass will grow,
in proof of which the grave was pointed out to me, a bare spot roughly
in the shape of a coffin, when all around was freshly green. Whether
the grave be still bare I know not, for my present road did not lead
me into the town; I almost wish now I had gone the short distance out
of my way to reinspect the spot. This is the story I noted down at
the time of the Robber's Grave as told to me by the said clerk, only
retold in brief. A certain John Newton, a long while ago, was accused
of highway robbery, convicted and sentenced to be hanged, such an
offence being then punished by death. On the scaffold Newton loudly
proclaimed his innocence, exclaiming, "I have prayed God in proof of my
innocence that no grass may grow on my grave." I forget now how many
years the clerk told me he had been clerk there, but they were many,
during which period he had carefully watched the grave, but not a blade
of grass would grow upon it. Fresh sods had been laid there, but they
withered away even in one night; the earth was dug up and grass seeds
sown, but they would not come up, so the grave remained bare and brown.
"I've been clerk here for all those long years," said he, "and I'm only
telling you the truth." I cannot say why, but that clerk reminded me of
another of the fraternity who exclaimed to a certain Dean he had shown
over his church, "I've been clerk here for now over forty years and
never missed a service, and, thank God, I'm still a Christian"!
So small a town is Montgomery, though the capital of the shire, that
a man, it is said, who once tramped there in search of work, inquired
in the town how far it was to Montgomery, for he thought he was merely
passing through a village on the way to that place.
Now our road wound round the side of a wooded hill, from which there
was a fine view of the country; and in this wood I sought shelter from
the sultry sun and rested there awhile for refreshment, when the birds
began to sing for my special entertainment, for there was no one else
for them to sing to, and the "Wind, that grand old harper," struck his
harp of pines by my side and played a soft accompaniment. Reclining at
ease on a mossy bank I smoked a fragrant pipe, well pleased with my
wayside hostelry, my comfortable couch, and the music provided with
my meal. "The outer world, from which we cower into our houses, seems
after all a gentle habitable place," says Stevenson. Only at night in
the summer time do I desire to "cower" into a house, and that for the
convenience of it; indeed the only room I can suffer on a summer day is
a library walled round with a goodly company of books, and with just
a picture here and there of a pleasant landscape for my eyes, when in
a lazy mood, to rest upon. On winter days, when the wild Nor'-easter
blows and the rain and hail descend, I grant it is good to be indoors;
then give me a seat in a good old-fashioned ingle-nook with a blazing
wood fire upon the wide hearth before me, the sweet incense of it
reminiscent of the forest. As Richard Jefferies says, "The wood gives
out as it burns the sweetness it has imbibed through its leaves from
the atmosphere which floats above grass and flowers."
Once more on the road we dropped down into a valley and soon came to
the Severn again, here in its youth lashing and frolicking along--how
good it is to be young and gay! So we followed the rejoicing river up
to Newton, where I took the precaution of filling my petrol tank before
making my dash across wild Wales. The man who sold me the petrol asked
me where I was going--this, as he politely explained, in case he might
give me any information as to the route. Such is the friendliness of
the road. When I told him where I was bound, he exclaimed, "You've
got a lovely drive before you, through the most beautiful scenery." I
was glad to hear this, though I expected much of the country, and I
was pleased to find that the vendor of petrol had a thought for the
scenic charms around. He was not a mere vendor of petrol, though he
courteously supplied it to a needful world.
Soon after leaving Newton we entered upon a pleasant valley, as
pleasant a valley indeed as shapely hills, shady woods, and a sparkling
river running through it could make a valley; an uncommercial
clear-running river, for it turned no mill by its banks as far as I
could see. Its only concern was to be beautiful, and after all that is
no small concern. Clouds appear as devoted to the hills as a lover to
his lass, and here we found the clouds prevailing over the blue sky,
shadowing for a time the hills; then as the clouds passed over them,
and a gleam of sunshine came, the hillsides would stand forth all in
glowing colour, purple where the heather grew, glowing with gold where
the gorse was in bloom, a yellow green on their grassy slopes, and
a gleaming grey where the wet rocks showed. For the rich and varied
colour of its landscapes I know no country to compare with Wales,
though it has its dull days, of course, like most other lands.
So we drove on in contemplative enjoyment, and then we came to Carno, a
tiny hamlet pleasantly placed on a crag above the voiceful river that
would be heard as well as seen. I wish all Welsh villages had such
easily spelt and such pronounceable names as Carno; for many a day and
many a time, when I have been on the road in Wales, have I been unable
to ask my way because I could not pronounce the names of places so
that a Welshman could understand me. What can you make of a gathering
of consonants, with only a stray vowel here and there amongst the lot?
At Carno I espied a homely little inn, the "Aleppo Merchant," to wit,
though what possible connection there could be between an Eastern
merchant and this remote and tiny village I could not fathom. There I
pulled up and called for a glass of ale as an excuse to take a glance
at the interior of the old house in case it were answerable to its
exterior, for some of these Welsh houses within are most picturesque;
nor was I disappointed. There I caught sight of a low, brown-beamed,
ceilinged room--I think it was the kitchen, for there was a fire in it
though the day was warm, and above the fireplace, arranged in orderly
array, were sundry old brass utensils, so brightly polished as to glow
like gold; and mingled with these were some pewter pots that shone like
silver, and how pleasant they were to look upon. For decorative effect
there is nothing like blue and white china, and polished brass and
pewter, and they are all as much at home in a mansion as in a cottage.
Hanging from the beams I saw a goodly display of hams, no less than
thirty-four in all, for I carefully counted them out of curiosity.
"Home-cured," the maid who served me with my ale declared. I thought I
would buy one, for home-cured hams are not easy to come by nowadays,
and such a ham is a delicacy to be enjoyed. But they were not for sale;
not even one of them would they spare me, though I did not haggle about
the price. "We want them all for ourselves," explained the maid, and
with that she went away to serve another customer. I thought to myself
these Welsh country people do not fare so badly.
[Illustration: A BIT OF WILD WALES.]
Some way beyond Carno we began to climb out of the valley and reached a
wide moorland, encircled by misty mountains. A moorland waste enlivened
only by the dreary gleams of peaty pools, but how buoyant and bracing
were the breezes that blew over it! The air was inspiriting if the
scene was not. From the moorland we descended steeply to the Tal valley
with its tumbling river by our side making wild music as it dashed on
its downward way. We were
Amongst a multitude of hills,
Crags, woodlands, waterfalls, and rills.
That describes our road in two short but sufficient lines, and what
need is there of more? At Cemmaes we found ourselves in the wider
valley of the Dovey; then we rose again to another moorland high above
it, with far-reaching prospects over the river to a confusion of bare
hill-tops rising above the deep woods below. The Dovey is a river much
favoured by fishermen, as our eyes bore witness, but one irate angler
I afterwards met, who had fished it without success, declared to me
that there were more fishermen on its banks than fish in the stream.
Possibly he was prejudiced; possibly the river is much poached, for the
Welshman is a born poacher, though, being religiously minded, I am told
he considers it a sin to poach on Sundays.
I did not reach Aberdovey that night, for as I drove into Machynlleth,
a town of unpronounceable name to me, the rain came down, and finding
a good inn there I proceeded no farther, though Aberdovey was but
ten miles on, but it was late and at Machynlleth I was certain of my
quarters. Aberdovey could wait. There were two fishermen in the porch
of my inn when I arrived; they had just returned from the river with
empty creels. "It will be a good day to-morrow for fishing after the
rain," one of them consolingly exclaimed. What virtue there lies in
to-morrow and in the promise of it!
In the smoke-room that evening I discovered a man poring, and
apparently puzzling, over some maps and guide-books, so I ventured to
ask if I could be of any assistance. I learnt from him that he was a
courier and was travelling in a motor-car with a lady and her daughter
from the States, and that he was planning their route for the morrow;
but what truly astonished me was his statement that his party had
come over to England solely to see the moors and the mountains, and
that he was instructed to avoid all large towns as far as possible. It
certainly struck me as passing strange that any American should come
to England in search of wildness to the avoidance of old-world places.
"We've had a rough journey of it," the courier exclaimed. "We landed
at Southampton, made straight for Dartmoor, then we did Exmoor, now
we're doing the Welsh mountains in the most deserted districts, next
we're off to do the Yorkshire moors, then we're going the round of
Scotland. We've had awful roads, and the chauffeur does not much fancy
the job. No more do I, for that matter, but when a woman with money has
got a whim in her head, she's bound to carry it out. It's the funniest
journey I've ever undertaken."
The rain was dashing against the window-panes. "What a day we shall
have to-morrow over the mountains," said the courier; "whatever the
weather, off we go; I've got to see the thing through, and to be
at Liverpool at a certain date to catch the steamer." I found some
entertainment in the conversation, and though I am prepared for
surprises on the road, I was hardly prepared for such a surprise as
this--an American to come to England in search of wildness. But one may
travel till one ceases to wonder at anything. Now when I come to think
of it, I do remember some years ago meeting at Warwick two American
ladies who were on a driving tour, and who told me what impressed them
most in the Old Country was "the weird wildness of the moors where the
world seemed as though it had only just been created; we thought to see
nothing but meadows and cultivated fields," continued they, "and we've
found solitudes." So did John Burroughs, by the way, during his English
wanderings. Now that the motor-car has been invented you meet American
travellers on motor-cars in the most out-of-the-way and unexpected
places, and they appear to delight in them and in their discovery.
Columbus discovered America; now the Americans have set about the
discovery of rural England. Soon there will be nothing left in the
world to discover.
Then one of the fishermen came in, but he never broached the subject
of fishing; he appeared to take more interest in my tour than in his
sport. I left the subject of conversation to him. He asked me where I
had come from that day, and when I told him, I was interested to learn
that he too was a well-seasoned road traveller who, like myself, knew
his roads better than his Bradshaw, and that he considered the drive
from Newton to Machynlleth one of the most beautiful in the kingdom,
"because it is so changeful and so continuously pleasant." Truly it
has no presiding peak, no particular waterfall, no old castle, no
special _coup d'oeil_, no shrine for the tourist to worship at,
nothing that you feel bound to admire whether in the humour or no,
so you can quietly jog on your way without fatigue of mind or eye,
without a thought of missing this or that you ought to see and friends
expect you to see and perhaps praise. Where all is interesting there
is no special assertive point of interest, and for one I prefer my
scenic meal served thus. I certainly can commend that drive, and during
the whole length of it I met no other car, so I imagine it is not a
much-travelled road, unless it were the chance of circumstance that no
motorists were in evidence then. It is an easy road, too, with only one
really steep hill on all the way from Newton to Aberdovey.
Machynlleth is a cheerful town, which all Welsh towns are not; its wide
main street is lined with trees, and what adds to the pleasantness of
the place is its fortunate position in the sheltered Dovey valley from
which rise wooded hills around; after Conway I think it is the cleanest
and pleasantest town in Wales. Though it possesses no castle to centre
its interest, or church of note, still it boasts of some old buildings
that have the charm of character. One very ancient and historic
building is the "Royal House," though its plastered front effectually
disguises its ancientness, nor is there anything about it to suggest
its past importance, but there it was in 1402 that Owen Glyndwr was
crowned King of Wales, and there he held his Parliament, and within its
walls his life was attempted by one David Gam. In this very house, too,
Charles I. slept a night on his way to Chester. I was informed that the
walls of the building were in parts of Roman masonry, so old is it, but
as the walls are plastered over I had to take this statement on faith.
Still it is within the bounds of probability, for the Romans had a
fortified station at Machynlleth "to keep the troublesome mountaineers
in order."
There is also another house, with some fine carving within, known as
the "Mayor's House," on which the inhabitants set much store, though I
saw little in it; it is a mildly picturesque structure of half-timber,
with two large dormer-windows above, a building that strikes an odd
note in a land of stone. On the front of it boldly carved in oak is the
following enlightening inscription--
1628. I. OWEN. PVQHIOVXOR.
That is all of interest the town has to show, as far as I could
discover or hear about; the scenery around is its chief attraction.
Finding my quarters and the company at my inn to my liking, I
determined to stay there over the next day, just putting through the
spare time by driving to Aberdovey and back, by way of a partial rest
from continuous travelling.
The beauty of the road from Machynlleth to Aberdovey was a surprise
to me; the drive was infinitely more rewarding than the object of the
drive. First we crossed the Dovey by a fine stone bridge (would that
the Welshmen built their chapels as beautifully!) at a spot where the
river chattered and danced over its pebbly shallows, and where its
quiet pools were green with the reflection of the shady woods by its
sides. For the rest of the way our road with many a bend wound about
the base of the wooded hills, with the river brightly gliding on the
other hand; now our road rounded a projecting crag, now it dipped down
to rise again, following faithfully the natural bent of the land; it
could not well do otherwise, unless it blasted its way through rocks
and tunnelled under the hills. Had it been carefully engineered it
would not have been half as pleasant; its very waywardness was the
charm of it. Each bend of the road revealed some fresh combination
of wood and hill, of rock and river, and the last bend of it the sea
cheerfully gleaming in the sunshine. Beneath the woods and on the banks
by the wayside the waving bracken flourished, forming a soft background
to the many wild-flowers growing there, amongst which the stately
foxglove, "chieftain of the wayside flowers," showed prominently.
Approaching Aberdovey we had a fine view over the wide estuary of the
Dovey, that almost looked like a lake with its background of hills. A
signpost pointing "To the Roman Road" brought to mind the times remote
when even the wild Welshman in these far-off mountain fastnesses felt
the strong and extended arm of the Roman power. Then we came to the
open sea, smooth and smiling as though there were never any hurt in it;
it lapped the rocky shore in a friendly fashion without hardly a splash
or a sound, a plaything fit for a child, as though it never longed for
the wind, or the wreck of a ship, or took toll of the lives of men.
Aberdovey neither pleased nor disappointed me. I knew it was a
watering-place, so I found what I expected: a row of ordinary houses,
having apartments to let, facing the sea; a watering-place saved from
being wholly uninteresting by a little jetty jutting out into the
water, where at the time of our coming two coasting schooners lay
alongside discharging their cargoes, a few shoremen looking languidly
on. There is always a certain charm about ships of the old-fashioned
sort, a suggestion of adventure; and what finer sight can there be
than a ship in full sail on the sea? A sight that, alas, is a rare one
to-day! How monotonous is the long, level line of the sea's horizon
without a ship in sail on it; for a steamer is dark and is not the same
thing to the eye as a sailer. One point about Aberdovey is that the
distant Welsh mountains in part break this horizon line pleasantly.
I was glad to get back to Machynlleth, for it made no pretence of being
anything but a quiet little country town at which the traveller might
take his ease. I spent the evening seated in the porch of "mine inn"
a-chatting with "mine host," having also an eye to the people on the
road, and so to the life and the humours of the place. With the help
of the landlord to tell me who was who, as far as he knew, and what
part each one played on the town's stage, I was entertained enough. I
think amongst the loiterers, if I had been a novelist, I could have
picked out a character or two of service. Plots may get exhausted, but
characters seem inexhaustible. Amongst the numbers of passers-by I
noticed a poor specimen of humanity in the shape of a footweary tramp;
and though I have so often been taken in by tramps, yet he looked so
pitiful an object that I had a mind to take compassion on him to the
extent of a whole sixpence; for how could I sit there, who had dined
and was even indulging in the infrequent luxury of a cigar, and behold
a fellow-mortal go by in need and not hold forth a helping hand? The
landlord, too, had noticed him. "Look at that man," exclaimed he.
"I know him well. He's on one of his yearly tramps. Always comes to
Machynlleth regularly. Never did a day's work in his life. As lazy a
good-for-nothing fellow as ever trod the road." I presumed the landlord
knew, so hardening my heart I kept my sixpence in my pocket.
One might scarcely think it of so unprepossessing a person, but I have
found the tramp to be occasionally an amusing individual, that is,
when I have got him alone on the road and obtained his confidence--to
accomplish which needs considerable diplomacy, a professed sympathy
with his lot, and a certain expenditure of coin of the realm to
prove such sympathy; then, when in a confidential mood, my tramp has
more than once given me an insight into the sort of life he leads,
and has even gloried in his mendacity, and has recorded with much
self-satisfaction the way he manages to live and find shelter without
doing a stroke of work. Such a one, as far as I can gather, would
tramp the country even though weary and wet through at times, live on
anything, rather than work. How is a man like that to be dealt with? He
takes no pride in himself or anything; he has not even a character to
lose. "It's a pretty poor life at times, I own," said one of the tribe
to me; "but it's the only life worth living, it's so gloriously free.
Take one day with another, it's not such a bad life after all in fine
weather, and I always has my pipe and bit of 'baccy with me by way of
company. I never got any pleasure out of life till I took to the road.
Well, sometimes it's a bit lonely, but I can generally manage to pick
up a companion on the way. We are a friendly lot, we tramps be," and so
on.
Whether it is their lonely life or otherwise I cannot say, but it seems
that some tramps are addicted to composing poetry. Here, for example,
is a trifle, expressing his sentiments, that a certain tramp left
behind him scribbled on a casual ward (at Newark I think it was):--
The sailor loves his good old ship,
The soldier loves his camp;
But give to me the good old road,
To live and die a tramp.
Some year or two back the Chief Constable of Berkshire, according
to my morning paper, when discussing the subject of vagrancy before
a meeting of the Charity Organisation Society, quoted the following
verses written by a prisoner on the wall of his cell, as illustrating
the predilection of tramps even for prison rather than work:--
I cannot take my walks abroad,
I'm under lock and key,
And much the public I applaud
For all their care of me.
The lowest pauper in the street
Half naked I behold,
Whilst I am clad from head to feet
And covered from the cold.
Thousands there are who scarce can tell
Where they may lay their head,
But I've a warm and well-aired cell,
A bath, good books, and bed.
Whilst they are fed on workhouse fare
And grudged their scanty food,
Three times a day my meals I get,
Sufficient, wholesome, good.
Then to the British public "Health,"
Who all our care relieves;
And when they treat us as they do,
They'll never want for thieves.