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Poem
May 7, 1845
The Port Gibson Correspondent
Port Gibson, Claiborne County, Mississippi
What is this article about?
A speaker reasons with a rich, vain friend about the oppression of the poor, illustrated by the tragic story of a ten-year-old orphan girl whose father died in war, mother succumbed to poverty and taxes, leaving the children destitute and begging.
Clipping
OCR Quality
92%
Excellent
Full Text
From the English Radical.
RICH AND POOR.
I reasoned with a friend one day,
And he was rich and vain,
He rode in a lordly chariot,
And he wore a golden chain;
I told him that the poor were ground
To earth, and sore opprest,
As their only place of rest.
There were proud scornings in his eye,
When I named the weary slave,
But his glances rolled unquietly,
When I talked about the grave;
Methinks the poor do feign.
'Come forth,' quoth I, 'I'll show thee why
The poor do so complain.'
We met a poor child in the street,
(The day was wet and cold,)
She roamed along with bleeding feet,
She might be ten years old.
'Why do you wander here, poor girl?'
Said I to the child of woe;
She looked up with a trembling look,
'I've nowhere else to go.'
I said, 'where is your father, child?'
She shivered in my sight—
'My father, sir,' she wept and said,
'Was killed in a great fight:
The king, sir, tore him from his home,
And left us all in pain,
My mother heard that he was killed—
He never came back again.'
'My mother, sir, worked night and day,
And kept us just alive;
But she grew sick, and what could I,
The oldest of the five?
And then there came the man who comes
For taxes from the king:
My mother had no money, sir,
She sold her wedding ring.
''Twas not enough,' the dark man said,
'The king must have his right;'
And so they seized my mother's bed—
My mother died that night.
We had no bread that night to eat,
My sisters sorely cried—
Some cried for bread, and some because
Our mother dear had died.'
'The youngest one was little Jane,
And she was three years old,
She kissed her mother's cheek, and cried,
'Dear sisters, 'tis so cold?'
I wander in the streets all day,
And beg to get some bread;
And, though I know 'tis wicked, sir,
I wish that I were dead.'
I looked upon the rich man's face,
He twirled his golden chain;
'The poor do so complain;
They're dragged away to murder these
Whom Jesus died to save,
Like dogs flung to their graves.'
RICH AND POOR.
I reasoned with a friend one day,
And he was rich and vain,
He rode in a lordly chariot,
And he wore a golden chain;
I told him that the poor were ground
To earth, and sore opprest,
As their only place of rest.
There were proud scornings in his eye,
When I named the weary slave,
But his glances rolled unquietly,
When I talked about the grave;
Methinks the poor do feign.
'Come forth,' quoth I, 'I'll show thee why
The poor do so complain.'
We met a poor child in the street,
(The day was wet and cold,)
She roamed along with bleeding feet,
She might be ten years old.
'Why do you wander here, poor girl?'
Said I to the child of woe;
She looked up with a trembling look,
'I've nowhere else to go.'
I said, 'where is your father, child?'
She shivered in my sight—
'My father, sir,' she wept and said,
'Was killed in a great fight:
The king, sir, tore him from his home,
And left us all in pain,
My mother heard that he was killed—
He never came back again.'
'My mother, sir, worked night and day,
And kept us just alive;
But she grew sick, and what could I,
The oldest of the five?
And then there came the man who comes
For taxes from the king:
My mother had no money, sir,
She sold her wedding ring.
''Twas not enough,' the dark man said,
'The king must have his right;'
And so they seized my mother's bed—
My mother died that night.
We had no bread that night to eat,
My sisters sorely cried—
Some cried for bread, and some because
Our mother dear had died.'
'The youngest one was little Jane,
And she was three years old,
She kissed her mother's cheek, and cried,
'Dear sisters, 'tis so cold?'
I wander in the streets all day,
And beg to get some bread;
And, though I know 'tis wicked, sir,
I wish that I were dead.'
I looked upon the rich man's face,
He twirled his golden chain;
'The poor do so complain;
They're dragged away to murder these
Whom Jesus died to save,
Like dogs flung to their graves.'
What sub-type of article is it?
Ballad
Satire
What themes does it cover?
Taxation Tyranny
War Military
Satire Society
What keywords are associated?
Rich Poor
Poverty
Taxes
War
Orphan Girl
Social Oppression
King Tyranny
What entities or persons were involved?
From The English Radical.
Poem Details
Title
Rich And Poor.
Author
From The English Radical.
Subject
Rich And Poor, Social Injustice
Form / Style
Rhymed Quatrains
Key Lines
I Told Him That The Poor Were Ground To Earth, And Sore Opprest, As Their Only Place Of Rest.
'My Father, Sir,' She Wept And Said, 'Was Killed In A Great Fight: The King, Sir, Tore Him From His Home, And Left Us All In Pain,'
And Then There Came The Man Who Comes For Taxes From The King: My Mother Had No Money, Sir, She Sold Her Wedding Ring.
I Wander In The Streets All Day, And Beg To Get Some Bread; And, Though I Know 'Tis Wicked, Sir, I Wish That I Were Dead.
They're Dragged Away To Murder These Whom Jesus Died To Save, Like Dogs Flung To Their Graves.