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 AREWELL, farewell to thee, Baron von Hoffman,
 * Thus warbled a creditor over his wine,

Of unmeaning faces I’ve gazed on enough, man,
 * But never on one half as stupid as thine.

Oh, gay as the negro who trotted behind thee,
 * How light was thy heart till thy money was gone!

But when all was gone, ’twas the devil to find thee;
 * The nest still remained, but the eagle was flown.

Yet long upon Harlem’s gray rocks and green highlands
 * Shall Burnham91 and Cato remember the name

Of him who away in the far British Islands
 * Now lights his cigar at the blaze of his fame.

And still when the bell at the Coffee-House ringing
 * Assembles, of brokers, the young and the old,

The happiest there to his memory bringing
 * Thy frolics, shall swear when thy story is told.