Job Gardener

When other people are so poor
It's jolly nice to be secure.

The man who does odd jobs for me
    Stopped me the other day,
"Please sir, you've no old coat," said he
    "you'd care to give away?
We pinch and scrape, the wife and I,
    And scant have we to eat,
Yet howsoever hard we try
    We just can't make ends meet."

So I gave him my oldest coat,
    Moth-eaten, worn and grey;
But oh you should have seen him gloat
    And carry it away.
"It's far too good for me," said he;
    "So much above my class."
And yet next Sunday I could see
    Him wearing it to Mass.

Mine is annuitable ease
    Immune from gain or loss;
I work me when and how I please,
    And no man is my boss.
And so it doesn't seem just right,
    (Though normal, I suppose)
That one who toils from morn to night
    Should beg my cast-off cloths.

Yet that's exactly how it was:
    Four other coats I own,
But I'm discomforted because
    His fingers to the bone
He wears, yet cannot purchase one,
    And to my sad surprise
In thanking me for   what I'd done
    The tears were in his eyes.