My way leads forth by the gate on the north;
My heart is full of woe.
I hav'n't a cent, begged, stolen, or lent,
And friends forget me so.
So let it be! 'tis Heaven's decree.
What can I say--a poor fellow like me?
The King has his throne, sans sorrow or moan;
On me fall all his cares,
And when I come home, resolved not to roam,
Each one indignant stares.
So let it be! 'tis Heaven's decree.
What can I say--a poor fellow like me?
Each thing of the King, and the fate of the State,
On me come more and more.
And when, sad and worn, I come back forlorn,
They thrust me from the door.
So let it be! 'tis Heaven's decree.
What can I say--a poor fellow like me?
