His thin hand held a pen—his eye, downcast,
Traced its slow movement o'er the blotted sheet;
His air was wild—his heart, I heard it beat!
Lone, pale, he sat, a spectre of the past,
Like Werner when the waters round him throng,
Or like the Banish'd Lord. His heavy task
Weighs on his brain—ah! when may it be done!
"What write you, troubled spirit?" then I ask;
In thrilling tones he said—"A Comic Song,
'Tis for the Jolly Sandboy, No. 1."