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Out of the rout of the gay bon-ton With my taste macaber I choose John.

John of Belgrade died last night, They found him dead by candle light.

It was little John got of this world's good; Squalid lodging and bitter food:

All men's scorn, and women's hate, And jeering of children that passed his gate.

He crept to his kennel last night to die, And lit the candle they found him by.

Limp in his rags with the death-froth smeared Over the yellow mat of his beard.

The rigour had not yet struck him stark When they huddled him into the shallow dark

Of a little grave digged into the bones Of an elder generation of Johns.

They shut the hut on his loathèd name, And went their ways, and all was the same.

Only I know they found a book Hid in a little vermined nook

Dug in the foul hut's crazy blocks; 'Twas the Hürnen Seyfried of old Hans Sachs.