The Pih Mun

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?

Hach 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?