The poor man walks his lonely round.
And should some bailiff chance to stray,
Where breaches mark the stairs’ decay,
Who’s there? Ah me! these red capes tell,
Pay this I can’t; to jail—All’s well!
Or gliding through this busy life,
With doctors, nurses, babies, wife;
The careful wight patrols the shop,
And guards the house from toe to top.
And while his thoughts oft debt-ward veer,