AN artist stepped into an office one day,
And held up my first for the clerk to survey;
“It ’s a good black and white,
But it is n’t quite right,
For I just drew it off in a hurry last night.
It ’s not very fine,
Nor of novel design,
But I hope ’t will be taken and hung on the line.”
He had scarcely gone out when a lady came by,
And she stopped in to ask if my second was dry.
“’T was a canvas,” she said,
“And it fills me with dread,
To think that the colors have faded or spread.”
Well, I sat there all day,
In that very same way,
Amazed at the endless and changing array
Of my whole that appeared in a motley display;
Percale and piquÉ,
Some green and some gray,
Worn in all colors and worn in all shades,
Worn by the ladies and worn by the maids,
By large and by small,
By short and by tall,
Till I ran away home to get out of it all.