8. To His Verses
What will ye, my poor orphans, do,When I must leave the world and you;Who’ll give ye then a sheltering shed,Or credit ye, when I am dead?Who’ll let ye by their fire sit,Although ye have a stock of wit,Already coin’d to pay for it?—I cannot tell: unless there beSome race of old humanityLeft, of the large heart and long hand,Alive, as noble Westmorland;Or gallant Newark; which brave twoMay fost’ring fathers be to you.If not, expect to be no lessIll used, than babes left fatherless.