To have rent its robe for grief he is not here,
Oft have I seen him sit, dissolved in tears,
Veiling his grief in draughts of ginger beer.
“One night I missed him from his favourite seat.
I wondered strangely where the boy could be.
Another night—I gazed—in vain my gaze—
Nor in the pit, nor in the house was he!
“Come here! I saw him carried to that tomb,
With drunken mutes, and all their mock parade,
Just read—I’ve left my spectacles at home—