Sadly his system’s tone,
When at two a.m. on the doorstep
He has stood, with a vacant smile,
Two bob and a toothpick in pocket,
And wearing a stranger’s tile,—
And oft on the billowy ocean,
His anguish has naught assuaged,
When there was a run on the brandy,
And the basins were all engaged,—
But even these pangs, my darling,