Rutland Gate

His back is bent and his lips are blue,Shivering out in the wet:"Here's a florin, my man, for you,Go and get drunk and forget!"

Right in the midst of a Christian land,Rotted with wealth and ease,Broken and draggled they let him standTill his feet on the pavement freeze.

God leaves His poor in His vicars' care,For He hears the church-bells ring,His ears are buzzing with constant prayerAnd the hymns His people sing.

Can His pity picture the anguish here,Can He see, through a London fog,The man who has worked "nigh seventy year"To die the death of a dog?

No one heeds him, the crowds pass on.Why does he want to live?"Take this florin, and get you gone,Go and get drunk,—and forgive!"