SONG OF THE IMPECUNIOUS BARD.
How many woes, the heavens beneath,
The sons of men assume!
For some, they say, are boomed to death,
While some have ne'er a boom.
And some like rockets rise and fall—
A sadder lot have they
Whose rockets never mount at all,
But fizz and die away.
My sun is sinking to the West—
It did not fairly rise.
In velvet coats I can't invest,
Nor in Byronic ties.
The very cheapest "shag" I smoke,
My thirst on water quench—
My latest sixpence when I broke,
I knew I must retrench.
Upon a simple scone I lunch,
Or luncheon I ignore—
I cannot even buy a Punch—
A most terrific bore!
But yet at Fleet Street, 85,
From gazing none retard,
And solace still may thence derive
An impecunious Bard.