Classic Poem

From the Old French.

I'm getting old in your big house, and you've never stretched your hand with a bit of gold to me, or a day's wages itself. By my faith in Mary, it's not that way I'll serve you always, living on my pocket, with a few coppers only, and a small weight in my bag. You've had me to this day, singing on your stairs before you, but I'm getting a good mind to be going off, when I see my purse flattened out, and my wife does be making a fool of me from the edge of the door.
It's another story I hear when I come home at night and herself looks behind me, and sets her eye on my bag stuffed to bursting, and I maybe with a grey, decent coat on my back. It's that time she's not long leaving down her spinning and coming with a smile, ready to choke me with her two hands squeezing my neck. It's then my sons have a great rage to be rubbing the sweat from my horse, and my daughter isn't long wringing the necks on a pair of chickens, and making a stew in the pot. It's that day my youngest will bring me a towel, and she with nice manners. . . . It's a full purse, I tell you, makes a man lord in his own house.