Oh Would I Were Dead Now, Or

What Is A Modern Poet's Fate? / To Write His Thoughts Upon A Slate; / The Critic Spits On What Is Done, / Gives It A Wipe - And All Is Gone.

There's A Double Beauty Whenever A Swan Swims On A Lake With Her Double Thereon.

There Is Not A String Attuned To Mirth But Has Its Chord Of Melancholy.

Some Sigh For This And That; My Wishes Don't Go Far; The World May Wag At Will, So I Have My Cigar.

While The Steeples Are Loud In Their Joy, To The Tune Of The Bells' Ring-a-ding, Let Us Chime In A Peal, One And All, For We All Should Be Able To Sing Hullah Baloo.