I hate that Andrew Jones; he'll breed 
His children up to waste and pillage. 
I wish the press-gang or the drum 
With its tantara sound would come, 
And sweep him from the village! 

I said not this, because he loves 
Through the long day to swear and tipple; 
But for the poor dear sake of one 
To whom a foul deed he had done, 
A friendless man, a travelling cripple! 

For this poor crawling helpless wretch, 
Some horseman who was passing by, 
A penny on the ground had thrown; 
But the poor cripple was alone 
And could not stoop--no help was nigh. 

Inch-thick the dust lay on the ground 
For it had long been droughty weather; 
So with his staff the cripple wrought 
Among the dust till he had brought 
The half-pennies together. 

It chanced that Andrew passed that way 
Just at the time; and there he found 
The cripple in the mid-day heat 
Standing alone, and at his feet 
He saw the penny on the ground. 

He stopped and took the penny up: 
And when the cripple nearer drew, 
Quoth Andrew, "Under half-a-crown, 
What a man finds is all his own, 
And so, my Friend, good-day to you." 

And 'hence' I said, that Andrew's boys 
Will all be trained to waste and pillage; 
And wished the press-gang, or the drum 
With its tantara sound, would come 
And sweep him from the village.