——:o:——
It is not that my Lot is Low.
(After Henry Kirke White.)
It is not that my “place” was low,
That bids my foolish tear to flow;
It is not that that makes me moan,
But ’tis, that all my money’s gone.
Thro’ slummy back-streets now I roam,
Whene’er I venture out from home;
To luckier souls I leave the rest,