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The Bowlman's Remonstrance

 

Thro' Winter's cold and Summer's heat,
I earn my scanty fare ;
From morn till night, along the street
I cry my earthen ware.
Then, O let pity sway your souls !
And mock not that decrepitude
Which draws me from my solitude
To cry my plates and bowls !

 

From thoughtless youth, I often brook
The trick and taunt of scorn,
And, though indiff'rence marks my look,
My heart with grief is torn.
Then, O let pity sway your souls !
Nor sneer contempt in passing by ;
Nor mock derisive while I cry—
­“Come, buy my plates and bowls.”

 

The potter moulds the passive clay
To all the forms you see,
And that same Pow'r that formed you
Hath likewise fashion'd me.
Then, O let pity sway your souls !—
Though needy, poor as poor can be,
I stoop not to your charity,
But cry my plates and bowls.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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