Grand 

Its fever and its frolic and its fun; And chuck me in the gutter when it's done. Ah, well! it's past and gone, and the memory is wan, And here by fortune hurled, I am dead to all the world, My ways are hard and rough, and my arms are strong and tough, And sometimes I take a dive, just to keep my heart alive, The cares that crowd and canker in my brain; Then back to brutish labour once again. That Death has got me cinched beyond a doubt; My weary, wasted life will peter out. Then the boys will gather round, and they'll launch me in the ground, And the moaning pine will wave overhead a nameless grave, And they'll leave me there alone, and perhaps with softened tone As a played-out, broken chum, who has gone to Kingdom Come, The Passing of the Year My glass is filled, my pipe is lit, And snug before the fire I sit, I dedicate to solemn thought This sober moment, sadly fraught You stand to bow your last adieu; Will ring the curtain down on you. You falter as a Sage in pain; And face.html">face.html">face your audience again. That sphinx-like face, remote, austere, O Maiden! why that bitter tear? Is it for fond illusion gone? O sweet girl-face, so sad, so wan So sleek, so prosperously clad! That makes your smile so gay and glad? What golden gain, what pride of place? What read you in that withered face? And You, deep shrinking in the gloom, What menace of a tragic doom? What urge to crime, what evil done? O haggard, haunted, hidden One The countless eyes that stare and stare; And some are shadowed with despair. .

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