| THERE are three ways in which men take | |
| One's money from his purse, | |
| And very hard it is to tell | |
| Which of the three is worse; | |
| But all of them are bad enough | 5 |
| To make a body curse. | |
| |
| You 're riding out some pleasant day, | |
| And counting up your gains; | |
| A fellow jumps from out a bush, | |
| And takes your horse's reins, | 10 |
| Another hints some words about | |
| A bullet in your brains. | |
| |
| It 's hard to meet such pressing friends | |
| In such a lonely spot; | |
| It 's very hard to lose your cash, | 15 |
| But harder to be shot; | |
| And so you take your wallet out, | |
| Though you would rather not. | |
| |
| Perhaps you 're going out to dine,— | |
| Some odious creature begs | 20 |
| You 'll hear about the cannon-ball | |
| That carried off his pegs, | |
| And says it is a dreadful thing | |
| For men to lose their legs. | |
| |
| He tells you of his starving wife, | 25 |
| His children to be fed, | |
| Poor little, lovely innocents, | |
| All clamorous for bread,— | |
| And so you kindly help to put | |
| A bachelor to bed. | 30 |
| |
| You 're sitting on your window-seat, | |
| Beneath a cloudless moon; | |
| You hear a sound, that seems to wear | |
| The semblance of a tune, | |
| As if a broken fife should strive | 35 |
| To drown a cracked bassoon. | |
| |
| And nearer, nearer still, the tide | |
| Of music seems to come, | |
| There 's something like a human voice, | |
| And something like a drum; | 40 |
| You sit in speechless agony, | |
| Until your ear is numb. | |
| |
| Poor "home, sweet home" should seem to be | |
| A very dismal place; | |
| Your "auld acquaintance" all at once | 45 |
| Is altered in the face; | |
| Their discords sting through Burns and Moore, | |
| Like hedgehogs dressed in lace. | |
| |
| You think they are crusaders, sent | |
| From some infernal clime, | 50 |
| To pluck the eyes of Sentiment, | |
| And dock the tail of Rhyme, | |
| To crack the voice of Melody, | |
| And break the legs of Time. | |
| |
| But hark! the air again is still, | 55 |
| The music all is ground, | |
| And silence, like a poultice, comes | |
| To heal the blows of sound; | |
| It cannot be,—it is,—it is,— | |
| A hat is going round! | 60 |
| |
| No! Pay the dentist when he leaves | |
| A fracture in your jaw, | |
| And pay the owner of the bear | |
| That stunned you with his paw, | |
| And buy the lobster that has had | 65 |
| Your knuckles in his claw; | |
| |
| But if you are a portly man, | |
| Put on your fiercest frown, | |
| And talk about a constable | |
| To turn them out of town; | 70 |
| Then close your sentence with an oath, | |
| And shut the window down! | |
| |
| And if you are a slender man, | |
| Not big enough for that, | |
| Or, if you cannot make a speech, | 75 |
| Because you are a flat, | |
| Go very quietly and drop | |
| A button in the hat! | |
