The lamentation of the old pensioner

I had a chair at every hearth,

When no one turned to see,

With "Look at that old fellow there,

"And who may he be?"

And therefore do I wander now,

And the fret lies on me.

The road-side trees keep murmuring

Ah, wherefore murmur ye,

As in the old days long gone by,

Green oak and poplar tree?

The well-known faces are all gone

And the fret lies on me.