bread was buttered,
But a word or two he uttered, and his choking grasp fore-
bore—
And he, when his clutching fingers from their choking grasp
forebore,
Vanished, and was seen no more.
Oft at night when I'm returning, and the foot-path scarce
discerning—
Whiskey-fumes within me burning like a molten reservoir—
In imagination kneeling, oft in fancy I'm appealing