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Rh And Jacob, the tailor, as fondly he lingers
 * O’er the leaves of his ledger by night and by day,

Will count the sums due him from thee on his fingers,
 * And mournfully turn from their figures away.

Nor shall Carlo,92 beloved of thy bosom, forget thee,
 * In his merriest hour at thy name he will start;

By the side of his chaise and his horses he’ll set thee,
 * Embalmed in the innermost shrine of his heart.

Farewell, farewell, while the spirit of evil
 * Has power in a creditor’s bosom, we swear

To be with thee on earth—if thou goest to the devil,
 * He is an old friend of ours, and will visit thee there.

Farewell, be it ours to embitter thy pillow
 * With thistles whose wounds are eternal and deep,

There are packets of letters afloat on the billow
 * That shall poison thy whiskey and torture thy sleep.

Around thee shall hover the constable gentry,
 * Those bloodhounds of law, ever thirsty and true—

Worse foes than the Frenchmen who saw you a sentry
 * In a platoon of Dutchmen at red Waterloo.

We’ll dine where the bailiffs in Bow Street are drinking,
 * And bribe all their clubs to be aimed at thy head;

And when of thy snug German home thou art thinking,
 * Take out a ca. sa. and take thee out of bed.

H.