Poetry Archives

Only a tramp by the roadside dead,
  Only a tramp—who cares?
His feet are bare, his dull eyes stare,
  And the wind plays freaks with his unkempt hair.
The sun rose up and the sun went down,
  But nobody missed him from the town
Where he begged for bread ’till the day he was dead.
  He’s only a tramp—who cares?
Only a tramp, a nuisance gone.
  One more tramp less—who cares?

  Ghastly and gray, in the lane all day,
A soiled, dead heap of human clay.
  Would the wasted crumbs in the rich man’s hall,
Where the gas-lights gleam and the curtains fall,
  Have given him a longer lease of breath—
Have saved the wretch from starving to death?
  He’s only a tramp—who cares?

Only a tramp! was he ever more
  Than a beggar tramp? Who cares?
Was the hard-lined face ever dimpled and sweet?
  Has a mother kissed those rough brown feet,
And thought their tramping a sweeter strain
  Than ever will waken his ear again?
Does somebody kneel ‘way over the sea,
  Praying “Father, bring back my boy to me?”
Does somebody watch and weep and pray
  For the tramp who lies dead in the lane to-day?
        He’s only a tramp—who cares?