Out of cash—and in dejection I was gazing at the floor!
Vainly I had tried to borrow half-a-crown to meet the morrow,
But discovered, to my sorrow, none would trust me any more—
From the too-confiding butcher to my tailor, tradesmen swore
They would trust me—nevermore!
Then, my study door unbolting, in there stepped, with bow revolting,
He, my stern, relentless tailor, whom, I fear, I hated sore—
Made a most polite oration—didn’t show the least vexation—
As he calmly took his station just within my study door,
With his bill upon the matting just within my study door—