Poem
The Old Pensioner
I had a chair at every hearth,
When no one turned to see
With 'Look at that old fellow there;
And who may he be?'
And therefore do I wander on,
And the fret is on me.
The road-side trees keep murmuring-
Ah, wherefore murmur ye
As in the old days long gone by,
Green oak and poplar tree!
The well-known faces are all gone,
And the fret is on me.
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