from 101 to 109, and from 1001 to 1009
With one grave bow he welcomes me:
But, when I leave the place,
Although requited by a fee,
He leers with crafty face.
Two days, at most, he lets me stay:
Not that he says “Don’t stop.”
He goes to work a surer way,
And slyly works a mop.
Three pence I gave him, half afraid,
And faltered “Worthy sage,
Though not enrched by what I paid,
Prithee abate your rage!”
Four pounds he wanted, but I knew it
Was a preposterous fee:
“I will not be a party to it!
Bring my receipt to me!
“A fine-pound note? Am I the Mint?
Or is your trade to rob?
I never heed a booby-hint:
Such loss would cause a sob.
“Six months I have travelled unshaven,
(That’s exactly one half of a year:)
I have changed from a dove to a raven—
But I will not be shaved, even here!”
“Seven days make a week,” say the folk:
For weakness malt-liquors avail.
There is not much new in the joke,
But I’ve always been nurtured on ale.
My eight-oar crew, your breath
Comes thick and short today!
Think not a jot of death!
Your stalwart foe survey!
At nine we’ll sup, ye brave!
Nor will it harm our head
One atom, if we save
A glass to take in bed!