  Tune—Erin go bragh. The plaint of a mourner, deep sorrow oppress’d with, Late, as thro’ Dean Street I pass’d, caught my ear; ’Twas a poor Token Monger, who prudence unbless’d with, Had receiv’d for presumption, a trimming severe. He gaz’d on the caution His dear self-importance severely was wounded, At such a long list of opponents confounded: The tokens he issued, were tokens of woe. Ah well-a-day! said the poor Token Monger, My project is scouted, my Mint’s at a stand; Alas! the sweet hope, I must cherish no longer, Of Jehu-like driving four in hand. Oh why! e’er in day dreams illusive exulting, Why did I my neighbours ne’er think of consulting! Now grief from their fiat so hostile resulting, Compels me to issue the tokens of woe! I’ve sported rare logic, I’ve stuck not at bouncing, I’ve prov’d myself rich as a croesus in brass; I’ve amus’d the whole town with my vaunting and flouncing; But vain are my labours, the tokens won’t pass! Vain too is thy friendship, dear Butterfly Billy, Of all my supporters, most noisy and silly; Wilt thou still take my tokens? sweet daffa-down-dilly: Oh! those which I issue are tokens of woe! Vanity whisper’d me, “John thou art clever, “Thy neighbours beyond their own noses can’t see;” I foolishly thought so, but never, oh never, Was mortal more sadly mistaken than me. Down from your windows, my friends, snatch your papers, The ridicule now of all starers and gapers; Some wag I am fearful will give you the vapours, By offering you payment in tokens of woe. Join, O ye pay clerks, my loud lamentations, Come my ill luck sympathetic deplore: On discount you reckon’d, but such expectations, Alas! my good friends, you must cherish no more. Tokens! God help me! why, why should I make them! Neither will Pitmen or Keelmen now take them; E’en in their wagers, they scruple to stake them, Oh! none must I issue but tokens of woe! No more of his sorrows the muse hath recorded, Tho’ tunefully still he bewail’d his sad fate; For listning no longer enjoyment afforded; The evening was chilly, the hour it was late. Ah, thought I, as quick homeward I now was repairing, ’Tis just with all wrong-heads, presumptious and daring, In their projects, the end with the means never squaring, Still baffled, they issue the tokens of woe. |
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