A drop of that something called short,
Or with me ’tis all up, I’m afraid,
If my friends would but now and then send
A small drop of comfort to me,
I might know that I yet have a friend,
Though a friend I am never to see.
From A Bowl of Punch, by Albert Smith.
London. 1848.
A Savage Parody.
(Born 1845; couldn’t be borne any longer, 1866; retired from society, is buried in the seclusion of a garret, 1867.)