They pick up free of charge;
But they leave you to rest while the bulbuls sing
Through the night, my own, my large!
The dust lies thick on your bloated form,
And the year draws to its close,
And the baccy-jar's been emptied—by
My laundress, I suppose.
Smokeless and hopeless, with reeling brain,
I turn to the oaken shelf,
And take you down, while my hot tears rain,