Classic Poem

1

I'm call'd Will Whistle by a throng
Of those that eat the thistle,
Because whenever a thing goes wrong,
I pocket my hands and whistle.
It's not because my flesh won't burn,
Or that I can't feel vexation;
But in all reckonings I discern
A Law of Compensation.

3

Now Fortune that keeps Lang so lean,
Plumps Piper like a goose:
But when Death eyes the couple keen,
D'ye think he'll stop to choose?
Oh! he's a mighty Epicure
And loves the fattest ration,
So thus, may Lang the lean make sure
Of a Law of Compensation.