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
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