Spendthrift.
HE was a king one time,
And they wrapped the ermine around him,
And the bells rang out when they crowned him,
Rang with a joyful chime.
And he sat on a throne!
The wealth that a world could offer
Was heaped in the New Year's coffer,
For the world was his own.
He was a spendthrift though,
And the coins of his lavish giving
Were the golden moments of living,—
Coins that he squandered so.
He is a beggar now.
In the night and the storm he lingers,
No gold in his prodigal fingers,—
King with the uncrowned brow.
Nothing to call his own!
His fortune scattered behind him;
Death empty-handed shall find him,—
A New Year takes his throne.