The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 20, No. 573, October 27, 1832. Various

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      Oh shame to the land of his birth!

      Weary and wan from door to door

      With faint and faltering tread,

      In vain for shelter I implore,

      And pine for want of bread.

      Poor Jacko! thou art hungry too;

      Thy dim and haggard eye

      Pleads more pathetically true,

      Than prayer or piercing cry.

      Poor mute companion of my toil,

      My wanderings and my woes!

      Far have we sought this vaunted soil,

      And here our course must close.

      Chill falls the sleet; our colder clay

      Shall to the morning light,

      Stretch'd on these icy walks, betray

      The ravages of night.

      Scarce have I number'd twice seven years;

      Ah! who would covet more?

      Or swell the lengthen'd stream of tears

      To man's thrice measur'd score?

      Alas! they told me 'twas a land

      Of wealth and weal to all;

      And bless'd alike with bounteous hand

      The stranger and the thrall.

      A land whose golden vallies shame

      Thy craggy wilds, Savoy,

      Might well, methought, from want reclaim

      One poor unfriended boy.

      How did my young heart fondly yearn

      To greet thy treach'rous shore!

      And deem'd the while, for home-return

      To husband up a store.

      Why did I leave my native glen

      And tune my mountain-lay,

      To colder maids and sterner men

      Than o'er our glaciers stray?

      There pity dews the manly cheek

      And heaves the bosom coy,

      That quail'd not at the giddy peak

      Which foils the fleet chamois.

      Here—where the torrents voice would thrill

      Each craven breast with fear;

      For dumb distress or human ill

      There drops no kindred tear.

      The rushing Arc, the cold blue Rhone,

      That in their channels freeze;

      And snow-clad Cenis' heart of stone

      Might melt ere one of these.

      Why did I loathe my lowly cot

      Where late I caroll'd free,

      Nor felt, contrasted with my lot,

      The pomp of high degree?

      Lo! where to mock the houseless head

      Huge palaces arise,

      Whose board uncharitably spread

      The unbidden guest denies.

      O for the crumbs that reckless fall

      From that superfluous board!

      O for the warmth you gorgeous hall

      And blazing hearth afford!

      All unavailing is the prayer—

      The proud ones pass us by;

      Their chariots roll, their torches glare

      Cold on the famish'd eye.

      And yet a little from their need

      Some poorer hands have spared:

      And some have sighed, with little heed,

      "Alas! poor Savoyard!"

      And some have bent the churlish brow,

      And curl'd the lip of scorn;

      For they at home had brats enow,

      And beggars British-born.

      And some have scoff'd as proud to bear

      Brute heart in human shape;

      Nor drop nor morsel deign'd to share

      With alien or with ape.

      Poor Jacko! yet one soul can feel

      Sad fellowship with thee;

      And we have shared our scanty meal

      In bitterness or glee.

      Yes! we have shared our last—and here

      Have little now to crave;

      No bounty, save a passing tear,

      No gift, beyond a grave.

      Still let these arms to thy bare breast

      Their lingering heat impart;

      Come shroud thee in my tatter'd vest,

      And nestle next my heart.

      Partners in grief, in want allied,

      E'en as we lived, we die;

      So let one grave our relics hold,

      Entwined, as thus we lie.