Classic Poem

A Poor old man went to a wood,
In quest of sticks to dress his food;
And, having fix'd them on his back,
Homeward again pursu'd his track.
The load was hard, the way was long,
The bearer was not over-strong;
Sometime he made a shift to trudge,
At last a foot he could not budge,
His load in vain he try'd to prop,
So e'en was forc'd to let it drop,
And, yielding to despair, he said,
Come, Death, my last and only aid.
Death, almost soon as call'd, at hand,
Inquir'd the cause of his demand:
The old man answer'd, Be so good
As give me up my load of wood;
Grant me but this, and I will never
Request of you another favour.