God's pity on poor kings,
    They know no gentle rest;
The North and South cry out,
    Cries come from East and West—
“Come, open this new Dock,
    Building, Bazaar or Fair.”
Lord, what a wretched life
    Such men must bear.

They're followed, watched and spied,
    No liberty they know;
Some eye will watch them still,
    No matter where they go.
When in green lanes I muse,
    Alone, and hear birds sing,
God's pity then, say I,
    On some poor king.