Patris, who composed it a few days
before his death. By J.C._
Last night I dreamt that worn away
With sickness, I was dead,
And that my carcass, cheek by jowl,
Was by a poor man's laid.
My stomach rose, methought, to see
The wretch so near me lie,
And straight his sauciness I chid,
Like corpse of quality.
Scoundrel, cried I, move farther off,
And give your betters room,
Avaunt, you scrub, and rot elsewhere,
Foh! how you stink and fume.
Scrub! quoth the saucy dog, that's well,
Pray who's more scrub than you?
Bethink you, Mr., where you are,
And do not rant it so.
Hither on equal terms all come,
Here's neither rich nor poor,
My muck's my own, and be assur'd,
That your's can be no more.
* * * * *
SONG.
Oh, yes! I always dream of her,
But never breathe her name;
Her spirit always dwells with me,
By night, by day the same!
The cheerful smile no more is mine;
I sorrow and regret;
I strive in vain to banish love,
But still I can't forget.
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