or, The Great Unpaid
by R.H.H. [Richard Henry Horne].
Originally published in Douglas Jerrold's Shilling Magazine (Punch) vol.2 #7 (Jul 1845).
A traveller near a crossing,
An old Blind Beggar passing,
Heard him bewail
And tell his tale,
In hoarse sad voice discoursing.
"Pity the poor afflicted,
Old, hungry-and dejected;—
My king I serv'd—
And I'm half starv'd;—
My country I protected.
"But I have got no pension,
Nor great man's good intention,
And blind I am
As a dead ram—
No fraud—no foul invention.
"A few steps on, you'll find, sir,
A rascal who's not blind, sir;
He sees—'tis true—
As well as you—
Give nothing to him, mind sir!
"The sun I cannot see, sir,
More than a pin or pea, sir;
O, recognize
With all your eyes,
The genuine blind in me, sir!
"I am the genuine blind one,
That villain seeks to grind one,
And poach one's field;
But I'll not yield,—
What! leave old rights behind one!
"If I had but three glimmers,
I'd douse his rheumy brimmers;
My dog and I
Would make his fly,
And ten such knavish nimmers.
"He has a mere thick sight, sir,
While I am stone blind, quite sir!
I swear—no trick—
By dog and stick,
To me all nature's Night, sir!
"Then help the blinded veteran—
The king ne'er had a better man;
For his countree
Must ever be
To him just like a debtor-man.
"The soldier, weather-beaten,
With nought his life to sweeten,
Must stand or fall
Beside his wall,
In old red coat moth-eaten.
"In battle I was a rager,
And, but for a mad wager
In which I lost
Bet, eyes, and post,
I had been sergeant-major!"
"Sir," quoth the Interloper,
"Man can but be a groper—
My mind and toes
Both follow my nose—
God's great—but I've no hope, sir.
"I waded yonder ford there,
Not seeing the bridge-board there;
'Gainst this warm wall
My back I stall—
I knew not of 'my lord' there!
"'Tis I who should complain, sir,
Begging in cold and rain, sir;
Throughout long wars
I served—for scars—
He saw not one campaign, sir!
"He sergeant-major!—pretender
In drums was he, and louder!
But this I know,
From friend or fee,
He never once smelt powder!
"My face, a flash of lightning
Wither'd—one eye-ball whitening--
At midnight, while
From battle-soil
My musket I was brightening."
"All foul and weak invention,
Beneath a blind man's mention!"
The other cried—
Slapp'd his left side
With scorn—and stood attention!
"He carried—canting coxcomb!—
A regimental box home;
For with one eye
He sees!—and sly
Doth, like a blinking fox, ream.
"And even if heaven did blight
The interloper's hid-sight,
Can he compare
With me who bear
Twenty great years of midnight!
"Before him—long, long since, sir,
I was as blind as a prince, sir!
Let him think by his slate,
Of one thousand, eight
Hundred and twenty—and wince, sir!"
"What if I had no mind, sir,
To work of any kind, sir,
Nor sword nor spade,
Toil, art, and trade—
Ha'nt I been twenty years blind, sir?
"Ha!—chink!—d'ye give the impostor
Some money! May disaster
Beggar the king—
My country bring
More wars—and taxes faster!
"I am the real blind man,
And nowhere can you find man
More blind than I—
God's curses fly
Like ravens on the wind man!
"And God protects the blind man—
The genuine, real blind man—
As for that thief
With eyes—may grief
Consume him, I am the blind man!
"Give money to that base toad
Because a lie his face shew'd!
'Tis I, you'll find
Am the great blind—
The noted man of this road!
"Mine is a total blindness
That sees no human kindness:
Nought good or wise
Comes to my eyes;
In what court could you find less?
"But what's the use of being
Perfectly blind, when seeing
Gets a reward!
This is damn'd hard!
With 'old times' not agreeing.
"My blindness is perfection;
It shuts out all reflection—
Save that I wait
At heaven's dark gate
For crowns at my selection.
"For God elects the blind man!
The genuine, real blind man!
As for that thief
With eyes, may grief
Consume him! I am the blind man!"
And now turn'd back the Traveller:
Said he, "Your stick's a graveller—
You'd knock down all,
Friends, foes, great, small—
But, here—take this 'unraveller!"
"'Tis gold. Your dark condition
Night without intermission,
Touches my heart—
Though, for your part,
Ne'er was a worse petition.
"Bigots, knaves, idlers, mummers,
Who want all seasons summers,
Proud to be blind
In eyes and mind,
Are self-love's loudest drummers."