The Beggar's Grave

A wild beast like who feels his death is nigh,
The hoary beggar went into the plain,

That in the prairie's heart might himself hie
To die, and until then unknown remain.

"Poor lads" who found his corpse had dug a hole
And threw the body in. The beggar's staff

Was used then for a slab, upon the pole
They hung his bag; that was his epitaph.
Where in the desert not a tree e'er grows
The tiny hill stands with its unique sign:

Fair nature- who on all thy aid bestows,
Makest that grass and wild flowers entwine

That lonely grave- And such is fate:
Once in his life he rags and patches wore.
While now the glorious sun did decorate
His grave with flowers fair from nature's store.

To 'him 'tis all the same, it matters though
A great deal, that he now had found his rest.

Who knows what perils did he undergo.

What fateful tasks he was forced to contest?

The hand, with which he used when hoary grown
As a support that knotty, stout, good cane,

When youth, force and strength had been his own:
Had drawn a bright sword on the battle plain.

He had been there, the midst of bloody strife!

And of his precious blood he freely gave.
Fought for his master's power and pelf and life

WTho let him famished then go to his grave.

Well, he is dead... Forgotten now is all.

The misery, also the battle cries.
A deadly silence reigns Which doth appal.

And undisturbed in dreamless sleep he lie:

But now and then a songbird will descend
Upon that staff and warble with a glee.

WThat song might sing that tiny feathered friend
Where on the slab a beggar's bag we see?