The Little Man in Gray

From “Songs”

IN Paris lives a little man

Who’s always dressed in gray:

His chubby cheeks like apples glow;

His pockets can’t a stiver show;

Yet, happy as the day,

“Ho,” quoth the little man in gray,

“I laugh at all things—that’s my way!”

And, sure, the gayest of the gay

Is he, the little man in gray!

In running after pretty girls,

In running up a score,

Hobnobbing, singing, into debt

He runs head over heels; and yet

When duns or bailiffs bore,

“Ho,” quoth the little man in gray,

“I laugh at all things—that’s my way!

And, sure, the gayest of the gay

Is he, the little man in gray!

Let rain into his garret leak;

Let him, unconscious soul,

Sleep in it; ’mid December’s snow

Let him his freezing fingers blow,

For lack of wood or coal;

“Ho,” quoth the little man in gray,

“I laugh at all things—that’s my way!

And, sure, the gayest of the gay

Is he, the little man in gray!

His comely wife some mode adopts

For picking up gay dresses;

So that the gayer she appears,

The more at him the public jeers:

But while the truth he guesses,

“Ho,” quoth the little man in gray,

“I laugh at all things—that’s my way!”

And, sure, the gayest of the gay

Is he, the little man in gray!

When on his tattered bed the gout

Has brought him to his level;

And when the priest, called in, begins

To talk to him of all his sins,

Of Death, and of the devil,

“Ho,” quoth the little man in gray,

“I laugh at all things—that’s my way!”

And, sure, the gayest of the gay

Is he, the little man in gray!