Sing the evil days we see, and the worse that are to be,
In such doggerel as dejection will allow,
Life is a Poem, short or long,
A dismal Dirge, or jovial Song,
A Psalm of faith, or Lay of Pride,
One stanza by each year supplied.
Lincoln is gone — who ruled the Western Land
From the Pacific to the Atlantic's brim —
And cold and nerveless lies the mighty hand
Are you, like me, a peevish brat,
With feelings extra-fine?
Are you disposed to whip the cat
When misadventure lays your flat?
The fleecy clouds had passed away
Before the bright approach of day,
Deem not this wielder of this pen
The happiest bloke alive,
For I am only five-foot-ten,
And ye are ten-foot-five.
“Are you the Cove?” he spoke the words
As swagmen only can;
The Squatter freezingly inquired,
“What do you mean, my man?”
Now the truce of night brings respite to the sordid care of day,
And in listlessness I pace the river side,
You argue — as sympathy governs your bias —
That Wisdom distributes the capon and crust,