I weep as I recall the day my Dun Lent me those fatal Three Half-Crowns: he stood A full half-hour in shilly-shallying mood Poising them in his hand, and - one by one - Counting them o'er, as first he had begun. Even then I saw no human likelihood Of my repaying them - and I still see none. Small wonder, therefore, if I sometimes brood With bitter tears over my dismal fate, Besonnetizing and bewailing it, Loathing my food, which at such seasons I Exert myself in vain to masticate, And suffering in such style as makes me fit For nothing but to - go to bed, and - die! |