XII
'Twas Young Dan told the story. He's up at the 'Sylum this ten or twelve year,
And the most of the time you might talk till you're tired; he'll not see you nor hear,
But sit mopin' and lost. Only now and agin it comes clear in his head,
And he'll tell you the whole, fit to freeze your heart cold in its beatin' wid dread.
Then mayhap the next minyit 'twill clever and clean be slipped out of his mind,
Like the bubbles that break in their clouts of white foam, and lave nothin' behind.
Sure it's luckier he is disremimberin' than some that keep hold of their wit;
For there's many a black trouble, God knows, you'd go mad for the chance to forgit.
