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A sighin' like, of unconsoled despair,
Thet comes from nowhere an' from everywhere,
An' seems to say, “Why died we? war n't it, then,
To settle, once for all, thet men wuz men ?
O, airth's sweet cup snetched from us barely lasted,
The grave's real chill is feelin' lise wuz wasted !
O, you we lef, long-lingerin' et the door,
Lovin' you best, coz we loved Her the more,
Thet Death, not we, had conquered, we should feel
Ef she upon our memory turned her heel,
An' unregretful throwed us all away
To flaunt it in a Blind Man's Holiday !”
My frien's, I've talked nigh on to long enough.
I hain't no call to bore ye coz ye 're tough;
My lungs are sound, an' our own v'ice delights
Our ears, but even kebbige-heads hez rights.
It's the las' time thet I shell e'er address ye,
But you'll soon fin' some new tormentor : bless ye !

[Tumult'ous applause and cries of “Go on!" "Don't stop !"}

THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT.

1850.

THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT.

ART I.

SHOWING HOW HE BUILT HIS HOUSE AND HIS WIFE

MOVED INTO IT.

My worthy friend, A. Gordon Knott,

From business snug withdrawn,
Was much contented with a lot
That would contain a Tudor cot
"Twixt twelve feet square of garden-plot,

And twelve feet more of lawn.
He had laid business on the shelf

To give his taste expansion,
And, since no man, retired with pelf,

The building mania can shun,
Knott, being middle-aged himself,
Resolved to build (unhappy elf !)

A mediæval mansion.
He called an architect in counsel;

“I want,” said he, a-you know what,
(You are a builder, I am Knott,)

A thing complete from chimney-pot
Down to the very groundsel;

Here's a half-acre of good land;

Just have it nicely mapped and planned
And make your workmen drive on;

Meadow there is, and upland too,

And I should like a water-view,
D' you think ycu could contrive one ?

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