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And Jacob, the tailor, as fondly he lingers
O’er the leaves of his ledger by night and by day,
Will count the sums due him from thee on his fingers,
And mournfully turn from their figures away.

Nor shall Carlo,⁹² beloved of thy bosom, forget thee,
In his merriest hour at thy name he will start;
By the side of his chaise and his horses he’ll set thee,
Embalmed in the innermost shrine of his heart.

Farewell, farewell, while the spirit of evil
Has power in a creditor’s bosom, we swear
To be with thee on earth—if thou goest to the devil,
He is an old friend of ours, and will visit thee there.

Farewell, be it ours to embitter thy pillow
With thistles whose wounds are eternal and deep,
There are packets of letters afloat on the billow
That shall poison thy whiskey and torture thy sleep.

Around thee shall hover the constable gentry,
Those bloodhounds of law, ever thirsty and true—
Worse foes than the Frenchmen who saw you a sentry
In a platoon of Dutchmen at red Waterloo.

We’ll dine where the bailiffs in Bow Street are drinking,
And bribe all their clubs to be aimed at thy head;
And when of thy snug German home thou art thinking,
Take out a ca. sa. and take thee out of bed.

H.