| |
From the French by Elizur Wright
A COBBLER sang from morn till night: | |
| ’T was sweet and marvellous to hear; | |
| His trills and quavers told the ear | |
| Of more contentment and delight, | |
| Enjoyed by that laborious wight, | 5 |
| Than e’er enjoyed the sages seven, | |
| Or any mortals short of heaven. | |
| His neighbor, on the other hand, | |
| With gold in plenty at command, | |
| But little sang, and slumbered less,— | 10 |
| A financier of great success. | |
| If e’er he dozed at break of day, | |
| The cobbler’s song drove sleep away; | |
| And much he wished that Heaven had made | |
| Sleep a commodity of trade, | 15 |
| In market sold, like food and drink, | |
| So much an hour, so much a wink. | |
| At last, our songster did he call | |
| To meet him in his princely hall. | |
| Said he, “Now, honest Gregory, | 20 |
| What may your yearly earnings be?” | |
| “My yearly earnings! faith, good sir, | |
| I never go, at once, so far,” | |
| The cheerful cobbler said, | |
| And queerly scratched his head,— | 25 |
| “I never reckon in that way, | |
| But cobble on from day to day, | |
| Content with daily bread.” | |
| “Indeed! Well, Gregory, pray, | |
| What may your earnings be per day?” | 30 |
| “Why, sometimes more and sometimes less. | |
| The worst of all, I must confess, | |
| (And but for which our gains would be | |
| A pretty sight indeed to see,) | |
| Is that the days are made so many | 35 |
| In which we cannot earn a penny. | |
| The sorest ill the poor man feels: | |
| They tread upon each other’s heels, | |
| Those idle days of holy saints! | |
| And though the year is shingled o’er, | 40 |
| The parson keeps a-finding more!” | |
| With smile provoked by these complaints, | |
| Replied the lordly financier, | |
| “I ’ll give you better cause to sing. | |
| These hundred pounds I hand you here | 45 |
| Will make you happy as a king. | |
| Go, spend them with a frugal heed: | |
| They ’ll long supply your every need.” | |
| The cobbler thought the silver more | |
| Than he had ever dreamed, before, | 50 |
| The mines for ages could produce, | |
| Or world with all its people use. | |
| He took it home, and there did hide, | |
| And with it laid his joy aside. | |
| No more of song, no more of sleep, | 55 |
| But cares, suspicions, in their stead, | |
| And false alarms, by fancy fed. | |
| His eyes and ears their vigils keep, | |
| And not a cat can tread the floor | |
| But seems a thief slipped through the door. | 60 |
| At last, poor man! | |
| Up to the financier he ran,— | |
| Then in his morning nap profound: | |
| “Oh, give me back my songs,” cried he, | |
| “And sleep, that used so sweet to be, | 65 |
| And take the money, every pound!” | |
| |
