My pens are nowhere to be found;
My blue-and-white china is shattered,
My songs have no space to resound;
My hat with pink priming's bespattered,
My Banjo is crushed on the ground!
I dare not complain, notwithstanding—
I'm faint with the fumes of whitelead;
And trip over pails on the landing,
And paint-pots fall down on my head!
When right through my hall I go stumbling—