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,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem