While The Billy BoilsSearchI mind the days when ladies fairHelped on my overcoat,And tucked the silken handkerchiefAbout my precious throat;They used to see the poet’s soulIn every song I wrote.
They pleaded hard, but I had workTo do, and could not stayI used to work the whole night through,And what have you to say?
’Twas clever, handsome woman then,And I their rising star;I could not see they worshipped me,Because I saw too far.(’Tis well for one or two, I think,That things are as they are.)
(I used to write for writing’s sake,I used to write till day,I loved my prose and poetry,And what have you to say?)
I guess if one should meet me nowThat she would gasp to think,She ever knew a thing like me,As down the street I slink,And trembling cadge from some old palThe tray-bit for a drink.
I used to drink with gentlemenTo pass an hour away:I drink long beers in common bars,And what have you to say?
But often, in the darkest night(And ’tis a wondrous thing)—When others see the devils dance,I hear the angels sing,And round the drunkard’s lonely bedHeaven’s nurses whispering.
I wrote for Truth and Right alone,I wrote from night till day;I’ll find a drunken pauper grave,And what have you to say?Good night!Good day!My noble friends,And what have you to say?