Classic Poem

T HE Bank its implement had made,
Exchequer smil'd, and fees were paid;
Enchanting Fif y was the sum,
To me its gracious mark was come.

Nor pocket-book, nor purse have I,
To me no Bankers aid supply;
Enough that ragged breeches hold
The helpless bill, or naked gold.

I thought it safe as thief in mill,
Nor meant its place with rhymes to fill;
My hand upon the jewel plac'd,
With jealous care its pride embrac'd.

Thus pass'd — a day — another came,
Precaution's guards were still the same;
A tailor bow'd — my wealth he knew,
" Here, Snip , " said I, " here 's this for you . "

Out flew the hand — with paper in 't,
But paper of no Banker's mint;
The note was fled — but, in its place,
A Sonnet fill'd the vacant space.