And Other Poems.
83
THE AUCTIONEER.
ABOVE the chatty, curious crowd
Is perched the Auctioneer:
His front is bold, his voice is loud,
His eye is sharp and clear;
He swings his hammer—ere it falls
The rostrum front upon—
“Now, is there no advance?” he calls;
“They’re going—going—gone.”
Is perched the Auctioneer:
His front is bold, his voice is loud,
His eye is sharp and clear;
He swings his hammer—ere it falls
The rostrum front upon—
“Now, is there no advance?” he calls;
“They’re going—going—gone.”
“Who bids for these? they’re up in pairs,
And those in lots are sold:
There’s sofas, lounges, tables, chairs,
And pictures, good as gold;
And here are rings—they’re really nice,
For ladies fair to don—
These must be sold at any price:
They’re “going—going—gone.”
And those in lots are sold:
There’s sofas, lounges, tables, chairs,
And pictures, good as gold;
And here are rings—they’re really nice,
For ladies fair to don—
These must be sold at any price:
They’re “going—going—gone.”
“Now, gentlemen, for those who read,
We’ve many a well-bound tome.”
Ah! those are household gods, indeed,
Which make a “heaven of home.”
Philosophers and Bards, who shed
Their light on reason’s dawn,
The stores from whence the mind is fed,
They’re going—going—gone.”
We’ve many a well-bound tome.”
Ah! those are household gods, indeed,
Which make a “heaven of home.”
Philosophers and Bards, who shed
Their light on reason’s dawn,
The stores from whence the mind is fed,
They’re going—going—gone.”
