My soul shall find favor of thee.

[Illustration]




POOR CRAZY ROBERT


Poor Robert is crazy, his hair is turn'd gray,
His beard has grown long, and hangs down to his breast;
Misfortune has taken his reason away,
His heart has no comfort, his head has no rest.

Poor man, it would please me to soften thy woes,
To soothe thy affliction, and yield thee support;
But see through the village, wherever he goes,
The cruel boys follow, and turn him to sport.

'Tis grievous to sue how the pitiless mob
Run round him and mimic his mournful complaint,

[Illustration: Poor Crazy Robert.]

And try to provoke him, and call him old Bob,
And hunt him about till he's ready to faint.

But ah! wicked children, I fear they forget
That God does their cruel diversion behold;