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A SHEAF GLEANED
And yet my mind is far from gay,
And asks—is this the better part,
Thus my poor Fanchette to betray
To whom I plighted hand and heart?
How loving is she—oh the pearl!
How she must suffer, sob and sigh,
Alas! If I forsake the girl,
I think, I almost think, she'll die.
Bah! By my faith! O Money-bags,
When next thine eyes enquire of me,
Mine shall reply,—a crust and rags
With her, than all the world with thee!
