Ever against my breast,
Safe in my pocket pressed,
Ready at my behest,
Daintily pretty
Gilt-printed piece of leather,
Though fair or foul the weather,
Daily we go together
Up to the City.
Yet, as I ride at ease,
Papers strewn on my knees,
And I hear "Seasons, please!"
Shouted in warning:
Pockets I search in vain
All through and through again;
"Pray do not stop the train--
Lost it this morning.
No, I have not a card,
Nor can I pay you, Guard--
Truly my lot is hard,
This is the reason,
Now I recall to mind
Changing my clothes, I find
I left them all behind,--
Money, cards, 'Season.'"
* * * * *