The chimney-piece he searched in vain,
Into each pocket plunged his fist;
His cheek was blanched with weary pain,
His mouth awry for want of twist.
He idled with his baccy knife;
He had no care for daily bread:—
A single stick of Negro-head
Would be to him the staff of life.
He only said, "My life is dreary.
The Baccy's done," he said.