The sound of the muffin-man’s bell
Makes me ready with anguish to bust,
For of money I’ve only heard tell,
And the beggars decline to give trust.
The pot boy has made me his sport!
He conveys to this desolate floor
From the pub at the end of the court
The bottles of Guinness no more.
My friends, when they wish to convey,
The hint that for me they have sorrowed,