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 Of cares or creditors—the best wine in town You'll get from Lynch—the cash must be paid down.

But if you are a bachelor, like me, And spurn all chains, even though made of roses, I'd recommend cigars—there is a free And happy spirit, that, unseen, reposes On the dim shadowy clouds that hover o'er you, When smoking quietly with a warm fire before you.

Dear to the exile is his native land, In memory's twilight beauty seen afar: Dear to the broker is a note of hand, Collaterally secured—the polar star Is dear at midnight to the sailor's eyes, And dear are Bristed's volumes at "half price;"

But dearer far to me each fairy minute Spent in that fond forgetfulness of grief; There is an airy web of magic in it, As in Othello's pocket-handkerchief, Veiling the wrinkles on the brow of Sorrow, The gathering gloom to-day, the thunder cloud tomorrow.