Classic Poem

In the upper circles
 Moves a famous man
Who has had no equal
 Since the world began.
He was once a broker
 Down by the Exchange;
He is now a nabob—
 Don't you think it strange?

In his low back office,
 Near the Bowling Green,
With his brother brokers
 He was often seen;—
Shaving and discounting,
 Dabbling in the stocks,
He achieved a fortune
 Of a million rocks!

Next he formed a marriage
 With a lady fair,
And his splendid carriage
 Bowled about the square,
Where his spacious mansion
 Like a palace stood,
Envied and admired
 By the multitude.

Then he took the tour
 Of the continent,
Bearer of despatches
 From the President:
A legation button
 By permission wore,
And became that worthy,
 An official bore.

Charmed with foreign countries,
 Lots of coin to spend,
He a house in London
 Took at the West End,
Where he dwelt a season,
 And in grandeur shone,
But to all the beau monde
 Utterly unknown.

England then was “foggy,
 And society
Too aristocratic”
 For his—pedigree:
So he crossed the channel
 To escape the blues ,
And became the idol
 Of the parvenues .

“Dear, delightful Paris!”
 He would often say:
“Every earthly pleasure
 One can have for—pay.
Wealth gives high position;
 But, when ‘money's tight,
Man is at a discount,
 And it serves him right.”

After years of study
 How to cut a dash,
He came home embellished
 With a huge—moustache!
Now he is a lion,
 All the rage up town,
And gives gorgeous parties
 Supervised by—Brown!

The almighty dollar
 Is, no doubt, divine,
And he worships daily
 At that noble shrine;
Fashion is his idol,
 Money is his god,
And they both together
 Rule him like a rod.

Books, and busts, and pictures,
 Are with him a card—
While abroad he bought them
 Cheaply—by the yard!
But his sumptuous dinners,
 To a turn quite right,
With his boon companions,
 Are his chief delight.

There his wit and wassail,
 Like twin-currents flow
In his newest stories,
 Published—long ago.
His enchanted hearers
 Giggle till they weep,
As it is their duty
 Till they—fall asleep.

*****

On his carriage panel
 Is a blazoned crest,
With a Latin motto
 Given him—in jest.
His black coach and footman.
 Dressed in livery,
Every day at Stewart's
 Many crowd to see.

*****

Well—in upper-ten-dom
 Let him rest in peace,
And may his investments
 Cent per cent increase:
Though on earth for no one
 Cares the millionaire,
So does not exactly
 His devoted—heir!

*****

There's a useful moral
 Woven with my rhyme,
Which may be considered
 At—some other time:
Crockery is not porcelain—
 It is merely delf—
And the kind most common
 Is the man himself