Some think great wealth a blessing, but it cannot stand the test;

He’s happier by far than I who’s but a single dime.

“He does not lie awake at night and fret and fume, to think

Of bank officials on a spree with what he’s toiled to get.

He is not driven by his woe quite to the verge of drink

By wondering if his balance in the bank remains there yet.

“He does not pick the paper up in terror every night

To see if V.B.G. is up, or P.D.Q. is down;

It does not fill his anxious soul with nerve-destroying fright

To hear the Wall Street rumors that are flying ’bout the town.

“Ah, better had I ta’en that cash that I have skimped to save,

And spent it on my living and my pleasures day by day!

I would not now be goaded nigh unto my waiting grave,

By wondering how the deuce to keep those dollars mine for aye.

“I’d not be bankrupt in my nerves and prematurely old,

These golden shackles must be burst; I must again be free.

What Ho without! My ducats—to the winds with all my gold,

That I may once again enjoy the rest of poverty.”

THE RHYME OF THE ANCIENT POPULIST

It was an ancient populist,

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