O fill his glass as host,

Was honour I did boast,

And he spake to me one day, with a smile,

"You wish to make a mark,

Then to my counsel hark,

In the Co., for which I'm chairman, put your pile."

He was noble, he was good,

Of the upper ten, his blood

Æsthetic tint of azure, all the while,

A tone to conjure with,—I put my pile.

The shares went down, O my!

Was not a fool to buy;

If I had been a savage on the Nile,

I needn't pen this sonnet, with a sigh!