The old sage said, "You're as sound as a nut."
"Hang him up!" roared the king, in a gale,
In a ten-knot gale of royal range;
The other grew a shadow pale;
But he pensively rubbed his sagacious nose,
And thus his prescription ran:
"The king will be well if he sleeps one night
In the shirt of a happy man."
Wide o'er the realm the couriers rode,
And fast their horses ran,
And many they saw, and to many they spake,
But they found no happy man.
They found poor men who would fain be rich,
And rich who thought they were poor;
And men who twisted their waists in stays,
And women that short hose wore.
They saw two men by the roadside sit,
And both bemoaned their lot;
For one had buried his wife he said,
And the other one had not.
At last they came to a village gate;
A beggar lay whistling there;
He whistled and sang and laughed, and rolled
On the grass in the soft June air.
The weary couriers paused and looked
At the scamp so blithe and gay,
And one of them said, "Heaven save you, friend,
Yon seem to be happy to-day."
"Oh yes, fair sirs," the rascal laughed,
And his voice rang free and glad;
"An idle man has so much to do
That he never has time to be sad."
"This is our man," the courier said,
"Our luck has led us aright.
I will give you a hundred ducats, friend,
For the loan of your shirt to-night."
The merry blackguard lay back on the grass
And laughed till his face was black;
"I would do it, God wot," and he roared with fun,
"But I haven't a shirt to my back."