Page:Ballads of a Bohemian.djvu/103

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''To rest my fagged brain now and then, ''When wearied of my proper labors, ''I lay aside my lagging pen ''And get to thinking on my neighbors; ''For, oh, around my garret den ''There’s woe and poverty a-plenty, ''And life’s so interesting when ''A lad is only two-and-twenty.

''Now, there’s that artist gaunt and wan, ''A little card his door adorning; ''It reads: “Je ne suis pour personne,” ''A very frank and fitting warning. ''I fear he’s in a sorry plight; ''He starves, I think, too proud to borrow, ''I hear him moaning every night: ''Maybe they’ll find him dead to-morrow.

He gives me such a bold and curious look, That young American across the way,