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If they take me to pawn with my lore in my pouch, * With my volumes to read and my ink-case to write, For one day's provision they never could pledge me; * As likely on Doomsday to draw bill at sight:" How poorly, indeed, doth it fare wi' the poor, * With his pauper existence and beggarly plight: In summer he faileth provision to find; * In winter the fire-pot's his only delight: The street-dogs with bite and with bark to him rise, * And each losel receives him with bark and with bite: If he lift up his voice and complain of his wrong, * None pities or heeds him, however he's right; And when sorrows and evils like these he must brave * His happiest homestead were down in the grave."
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