I’m spooning on Joseph—heigh-ho!
And I’m to be “finished” by travel—
Whatever’s the meaning of that—
Oh! why did papa strike pay gravel
In drifting on Poverty Flat?
Good-night—here’s the end of my paper;
Good-night—if the longitude please—
For maybe, while wasting my taper,
Your sun’s climbing over the trees.
But know, if you haven’t got riches,