Oh! Poet of nature, nature’s bard,
I respect thee, thy glorious art.
Thy cheerful songs relieve the wounded,
Thy flights of fancy take them way ahead.
But listen, there are other things,
Your mighty pen should pen down,
A poor’s deplorable life and sight,
And corrupt rule of the crown.
Sing no more of birds and flowers,
Seasons, moon or heavenly Earth.
Sing of babies who are strangled,
Mercilessly, before their birth.
Sing no more of lovers’ deep sighs,
Their solitudes or tears they wept.
But sing of those unfortunate lads,
At nights, without bread they slept.
Sing no more of wild, oceans or streams,
Nor of romantic winds, nor of springs.
Sing of farmers, laborers, their mundane,
Sing of wretched, deprived, their dark evenings.