Classic Poem

Up beggars! be joyful, for joy is our own,
Our garments are raining, and bald is our crown—
Beloved! want presses us—what shall we do?—
Why, want is one woe—discontent would make two.

Let's in to the inn, tho' we stay but a minute,
For the bottle looks mournful when nothing is in it;
Legs weary—bags empty—and what shall we do?—
Why—bearing one burthen—we need not make two!

On friday we dine—from a half-empty pot—
Sour broth—ragged bones—bread and water we've got;
And fish?—without doubt—in the Danube—the sea,
Which are fresher and sweeter than caught fish can be.

And saturday comes—that's perplexing and rude—
And sunday—with hunger—but where is the food?
We sit at the table—poor devils! to eat,
Were the table but covered, our task would be sweet.

Our cooks are sad pigmies—they cannot be less;
They needs must look small when they've nothing to dress—
Can they carve from a fog—make of darkness a stew—
Or turn a stag's ghost to a venison ragout?