But these clothes, one sock, and a comb,
And they, too, will vanish unless
They send a remittance from home.
Post Office Orders or stamps, &c.
My candles are burnt, and my coals
Are out, but my taxes are in,
And as for my boots, poor old souls!
Like me, they’ve grown terribly thin.
Unless money comes I shall die,
And, chang’d to a goblin or gnome,