Here, in a Crowd of drunken Soldiers, stood
A wretched, poor old Man, besmear'd with Blood,
And at his Feet, just thro' the Body run,
Strugling for Life, was laid his only Son;
By whose hard Labour he was daily fed,
Dividing still with pious Care, his Bread.
And while he mourn'd with Floods of aged Tears,
The sole Support of his decripid Years,
The barb'rous Mob, whose Rage no limit knows,
With blasphemous Derision mock'd his Woes.