And still he said, "My life is dreary.
No Baccy, boys," he said.
He said, "I am aweary, aweary;
I'd just as soon be dead."
His meals go by, he knows not how;
No taste in flesh, or fowl, or fish;
There's not a dish could tempt him now,
Except a cake of Caven-dish.
His life is but a weary drag;
He cannot choose but curse and swear,