Th P P（2 / 3）

ough life,

till, fled each hope that once his bo fired,

and fled each e that glorio once spir&039;d,

low-sunk salid, unprotected a,

dead even resentnt for his jur&039;d pa,

he heeds no ore the ruthless critics&039; ra

by hed the nero steed deceas&039;d,

for half-starv&039;d, snarlg curs a daty feast;

by toil and fae worn to sk and bone,

lies, senseless of each tuggg bitch&039;s n

a little upright, pert, tart, trippg wight,

and still his precio self his dear delight;

who loves his own sart shadow the streets,

better than e&039;er the fairest she he ets;

uch specio lore, but little understood,

(veneerg oft outshes the lid wood),

his lid sense, by ches you t tell,

but te his cunng by the sttish ell!

a an of fashion too, he ade his tour,

learn&039;d “vive bagatelle et vive l&039;aour;”

travell&039;d onkeys their griace iprove,

polish their gr—nay, sigh for dies&039; love!

his ddlg vanity, a by fiend,

still akg work his selfish craft t nd

crochaln ca,

the old ck&039;d hat, the brown surtout—the sa;

his grisly beard jt bristlg its ight—

&039;as four long nights and days fro shavg-night;

his unb&039;d, hoary locks, wild-starg, thatch&039;d

a head, for thought profound and clear, unatch&039;d;

yet, tho&039; his catic wit was bitg-rude,

his heart was war, benevolent and good

o dulness, portion of the truly blest!

cal, shelter&039;d haven of eternal rest!

thy ns ne&039;er adden the fierce extres

of fortune&039;s por frost, or torrid beas;

if antlg high she fills the golden cup,

with ber, selfish ease they sip it up;

nscio the bounteo ed they well deserve,

they only wonder “ folks” do not starve!

the grave, sa hern th easy picks his frog,

and thks the alrd a sad worthless dog

when d