He was down and out, and his pluck was gone,
And he said to me in a gloomy way:
'I've wasted my chances, one by one,
And I'm just no good, as the people say.
Nothing ahead, and my dreams all dust,
Though once there was something I might have been,
But I wasn't game, and I broke my trust,
And I wasn't straight and I wasn't clean.'
'You're pretty low down,' says I to him,
'But nobody's holding you there, my friend.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem