Then he’d curse the harmless cutler, heap upon him curses deep—
Curse him in his hour of waking, doubly curse him in his sleep—
Saying, “Mechi! O my Mechi! O my Mechi, mine no more,
Whither’s fled that brilliant sharpness which thy razors had of yore,
Ere thou quittedst Leadenhall-street, quittedst it with many a qualm—
Ere thou soughtest rustic Tiptree, Tiptree and its model farm?
Many a morning, by the mirror, did I pass thee o’er my beard,
And my chin grew smooth beneath thee, of its hairy harvest cleared;
Many an evening have I drawn thee ’cross the throats of wretched Jews,
When they, trembling, showed their purses, stuffed for safety in their shoes.