"Why do you grumble, comrade, that there's nothing in your

purse?

God is good, his gifts are sure, keep up your heart from woe;

The winter it will soon be past, the bloom come to the furze,

And where our eyes look round us we will go."

"How can I help my sadness, lad, how can I drop my care?

All the ills of life I feel in my bosom sore;

I cannot sleep nor rest, nor breathe refreshing air,

My heart is in a well and covered o'er.

"My side is naked to the blast, my coat to rags is torn,

My shoulder blade is bleeding raw, where my belt will chafe,

My horse has lost a shoe behind, the others they are worn,

And I'm afraid that none of them are safe.

"In my mantle the rain has soaked, and rotted its strength

away,

I cannot hope for another; no one will make a gift;

have my wallet still, but bare and empty it must stay;

But that is not the worst of all my shrift.

"From my trimming of good wolf's fur the hair is falling out,

Across my flagon's mouth the spider has spun a sheet;

The joys of youth have left me; no one comes me about,

To wash my sweated shirt and make it neat."

"For all the ills of life, my friend, one lives as best one may.

The blest rays of the sunshine still warm my heart and

breast.

When I can't eat, I light my pipe, and puff my care away.

Poor fellows live; I live as do the rest."