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HE man who wears a brazen face,
 * Quite à son aise his glass may quaff;

And whether in or out of place,
 * May twirl his stick, and laugh.

Useless to him the broad doubloon,
 * Red note, or dollar of the mill;

Though all his gold be in the moon,
 * His brass is current money still.

Thus, when my cash was at low water,
 * At Niblo’s I sat down to dine;

And after a tremendous slaughter
 * Among the wild-fowl and the wine,

The bill before mine eyes was placed—
 * When, slightly turning round my head,

“Charge it,” cried I—the man amazed,
 * Stared, made his congé, and obeyed.

Oh! bear me to some forest thick,
 * Where wampumed Choctaws prowl alone,