Poems of James Clarence Mangan (Many hitherto uncollected): Centenary edition: Edited, with preface and notes by D. J. O'Donoghue: Introduction by John Mitchel |
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WHERE'S MY MONEY? |
 | Poems of James Clarence Mangan |  |
WHERE'S MY MONEY?
Ay! where's my money? That's a puzzling query.
It vanishes. Yet neither in my purse
Nor pocket are there any holes. 'Tis very
Incomprehensible. I don't disburse
For superfluities. I wear plain clothes.
I seldom buy jam tarts, preserves, or honey;
And no one overlooks what debts he owes
More steadily than I. Where is my money?
It vanishes. Yet neither in my purse
Nor pocket are there any holes. 'Tis very
Incomprehensible. I don't disburse
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I seldom buy jam tarts, preserves, or honey;
And no one overlooks what debts he owes
More steadily than I. Where is my money?
I never tipple. Folks don't see me staggering,
Sans cane and castor, in the public street.
I sport no ornaments—not even a bague (ring).
I have a notion that my own two feet
Are much superior to a horse's four,
So never call a jarvey. It is funny.
The longer I investigate, the more
Astoundedly I ask, Where is my money?
Sans cane and castor, in the public street.
I sport no ornaments—not even a bague (ring).
I have a notion that my own two feet
Are much superior to a horse's four,
So never call a jarvey. It is funny.
The longer I investigate, the more
Astoundedly I ask, Where is my money?
My money, mind you! Other people's dollars
Cohere together nobly. Only mine
Cut one another. There's that pink of scholars
Von Doppeldronk, he spends as much on wine
As I on—every thing. Yet he seems rich,
He laughs, and waxes plumper than a bunny,
While I grow slim as a divining-switch,
And search for gold as vainly. Where's my money?
Cohere together nobly. Only mine
Cut one another. There's that pink of scholars
Von Doppeldronk, he spends as much on wine
As I on—every thing. Yet he seems rich,
He laughs, and waxes plumper than a bunny,
While I grow slim as a divining-switch,
And search for gold as vainly. Where's my money?
I can't complain that editors don't pay me;
I get for every sheet One Pound Sixteen;
And well I may! My articles are flamy
Enough to blow up any Magazine.
What's queerest in the affair though is, that at
The same time I miss nothing but the one. He
That watches me will find I don't lose hat,
Gloves, fogle, stick, or cloak. 'Tis always money!
I get for every sheet One Pound Sixteen;
And well I may! My articles are flamy
Enough to blow up any Magazine.
What's queerest in the affair though is, that at
The same time I miss nothing but the one. He
That watches me will find I don't lose hat,
Gloves, fogle, stick, or cloak. 'Tis always money!
Were I a rake I'd say so. Where one roysters
Beyond the rules, of course his cash must go.
'Tis true I regularly sup on oysters,
Cheese, brandy, and all that. But even so?
What signifies a ducat of a night?
“The barmaids,” you may fancy. No. The sunny
Loadstar that draws my tin is not the light
From their eyes anyhow. Where then's my money?
Beyond the rules, of course his cash must go.
'Tis true I regularly sup on oysters,
Cheese, brandy, and all that. But even so?
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“The barmaids,” you may fancy. No. The sunny
Loadstar that draws my tin is not the light
From their eyes anyhow. Where then's my money?
However, àpropos of eyes and maidens,
I own I do make presents to the Sex—
Books, watches, trinkets, music, too (not Haydn's),
Combs, shawls, veils, bonnets—things that might perplex
A man to count. But still I gain by what
I lose in this way. 'Tis experience won—eh?
I think so. My acquaintances think not.
No matter. I grow tedious. Where's my money?
I own I do make presents to the Sex—
Books, watches, trinkets, music, too (not Haydn's),
Combs, shawls, veils, bonnets—things that might perplex
A man to count. But still I gain by what
I lose in this way. 'Tis experience won—eh?
I think so. My acquaintances think not.
No matter. I grow tedious. Where's my money?
| Poems of James Clarence Mangan | |