Classic Poem

Have you heard, my dear Anne, how my spirits are sunk?
Have you heard of the cause? Oh, the loss of my Trunk !
From exertion or firmness I've never yet slunk;
But my fortitude's gone with the loss of my Trunk !
Stout Lucy, my maid, is a damsel of spunk;
Yet she weeps night and day for the loss of my Trunk !
I'd better turn nun, and coquet with a monk;
For with whom can I flirt without aid from my Trunk !
Accurs'd be the thief, the old rascally hunks,
Who rifles the fair, and lays hands on their Trunks !
He, who robs the King's stores of the least bit of junk,
Is hang'd — while he's safe, who has plunder'd my Trunk !

There's a phrase amongst lawyers, when nunc 's put for tunc ;
But, tunc and nunc both, must I grieve for my Trunk !
Huge leaves of that great commentator, old Brunck,
Perhaps was the paper that lin'd my poor Trunk !
But my rhymes are all out; — for I dare not use st — — k;
'Twou'd shock Sheridan more than the loss of my Trunk .