Poor Robert is crazy, his hair is turn’d gray,
His beard has grown long, and hangs down
to his breast;
Misfortune has taken his reason away,
His heart has no comfort, his head has
no rest.
Poor man, it would please me to soften thy woes,
To soothe thy affliction, and yield thee
support;
But see through the village, wherever he goes,
The cruel boys follow, and turn him to
sport.
’Tis grievous to sue how the pitiless mob
Run round him and mimic his mournful complaint,
And try to provoke him, and call him old Bob,
And hunt him about till he’s ready
to faint.
But ah! wicked children, I fear they forget
That God does their cruel diversion behold;
And that in his book dreadful curses are writ,
For those who shall mock at the poor and
the old.
Poor Robert, thy troubles will shortly be o’er,
Forget in the grave thy misfortunes will
be;
But God will his vengeance assuredly pour
On those wicked children who persecute
thee.