  In the great city Gotham, near the sea, Where Queen Fashion rul’d the aristocracy, Lived the proud millionnaire, Sir Thomas Brown, With riches enough to purchase a crown; He had sons, and daughters settled in life, He was a widower, having no wife, True! he was old, being now eighty-three, But managed to get down to breakfast, and tea, His eyesight grown dim, and shaky his hand, Of course—needed help to button a band, In making his toilet—now, pray don’t stare— He wanted some one to comb out his hair, To brush his new teeth—put on his collar, To dust off his clothes, and things that follow. ’Tis true! it gave all the children pleasure, To dust, brush and scrub him without measure. Now this ancient relic of ages past, This human caricature, worthy of Nast, This feeble old man, one foot in the grave, Inspir’d by Cupid, at once became brave. So he hobbled around, seeking for Ruth, And found her a widow, blooming in youth. A widow! ah, yes! now that was a fact, Possessing much good sense in the abstract; Sir Thomas was human! why then complain? We are all human, in sunshine or rain. |
|
