And takes the fancy of a guest,
And makes my house no house of rest:
I would its voice were gone.
Yet be indulgent, sirs! 'Tis old.
Next week it shall be burnt or sold.
A new—" The voice went on:
"Here have I stood while life unrolled
But not the tale my breezes told.
Moonlight alone conceals the cold
Drab city's lack of heart.