Awake! the Dawn is breaking rosy red;
The Flies their matin Hymns sing round your Head—
And here you’ve roosted on the Kerb all night,
And never paid a Stiver for your Bed.
Last Eve, no doubt, when primed with Beer and Wine,
The World at large was all your Ruby Mine;
But if you had to face the Beak to-day,
It’s odds you couldn’t pay a Dollar Fine.
Ah, then Life wore an amber-tinted Hue,
To dizzy Heights your hop-fed Fancy flew;
But now, alas! to damp a Soul of Clay
You’ll have, perforce, to try a weaker Brew.
Search well again! Perhaps some vagrant Sprat
Lies hid within the Lining of your Hat;
Or if a Thrummer, you’ve an even chance—
A hungry Bung will often come at that.
And, ah! see yonder open tap-room Door—
If Fate be kind, old chap! maybe you’ll score;
And if a foaming Pot materialise,
Soak up the Juice, and boldly ask for more.
Myself, when young, did eagerly frequent
Shanty and Pub, on gratis Beer intent;
But I (unlucky wayfarer) was oft
Shot out by the same Door that in I went.
And that perverted soul we call the Bung,
Whose Moods, in turn, are praised or cursed or sung—
I’ve often wondered in my Heart, why he
Remains uncanonised—or else unhung.
From some, indeed, the Milk of Kindness flows:
Another Churl the pointed Insult throws—
But when He cops a Oner on the Beak,
He knows about it all—He Knows—HE KNOWS!
But come! Let’s tap this caravanserai!
I hold a Bob, in case the Kite won’t fly;
But ask not how it haps—like Life and Death
I know not How, nor When, nor Whence, nor Why.