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 be
Some race of old humanity
Left, of the large heart and long hand,
Alive, as noble Westmorland,
Or gallant Newark, which brave two
May fost'ring fathers be to you.
If not, expect to be no less
Ill us'd, than babes left fatherless.