Should you look at those of wealth and power
and think of me as a man with riches shorn
know I prize the touch of springs first shower
and the songbird herald of breaking dawn.
Do not feel pity for one whose head sags
glimpsed at times labouring past your doors
for I shelter amidst the northern crags
that rest upon the rolling heathered moors.
I throw not the sweetest wine down my neck
or feast on food that makes the table groan
but sip Adam’s ale drawn from fairy beck
and eat that raised by these hands alone.
And I shall have lived that much I know
while he just existed in a life of show.