The Millionaire.

In the upper circles
    Moves a famous man
Who has had no equal
    Since the world began.
He was once a broker
    Down by the exchange;
He is now a nabob--
    Don't you think it strange?

In his low back office,
    Near the Bowling Green,
With his brother brokers
    He was often seen;--
Shaving and discounting,
    Dabbling in the stocks,
He achieved a fortune
    Of a million ROCKS!'

Next he formed a marriage
    With a lady fair,
And his splendid carriage
    Bowled about THE square,
Where his spacious mansion
    Like a palace stood,
Envied and admired
    By the multitude.

Then he took the tour
    Of the continent,
Bearer of dispatches
    From the President:
A legation button
    By permission wore,
And became that worthy,
    An official bore.

Charmed with foreign countries,
    Lots of coin to spend,
He a house in London
    Took a the West End,
Where he dwelt a season,
    And in grandeur shone,
But to all the beau monde
    Utterly unknown.

England then was "foggy,
    And society
Too aristocratic"
    For his--pedigree:
So he crossed the channel
    To escape the BLUES,
And became the idol
    Of the parvenues.

"Dear, delightful Paris!"
    He would often say:
"Every earthly pleasure
    One can have for--pay.
Wealth gives high position;
    But when money's tight,
Man is at a discount,
    And it serves him right."

After years of study
    How to cut a dash,
He came home embellished
    With a huge--moustache!
Now he is a lion,
    All the rage up town,
And gives gorgeous parties
    Supervised by--Brown!

The almighty dollar
    Is, no doubt, divine,
And he worships daily
    At that noble shrine;
Fashion is his idol,
    Money is his god,
And they both together
    Rule him like a rod.

Books, and busts, and pictures,
    Are with him a card--
While abroad he bought them
    Cheaply--by the yard!
But his sumptuous dinners,
    To a turn quite right,
With his boon companions,
    Are his chief delight.

Thee his wit and wassail,
    Like twin-currents flow
In his newest stories,
    Published--long ago.
His enchanted hearers
    Giggle till they weep,
As it is their duty
    Till they--fall asleep.

    *        *        *        *

On his carriage panel
    Is a blazoned crest,
With a Latin motto
    Given him--in jest.
His black coach and footman,
    Dressed in livery,
Every day at Stewart's
    Many crowd to see.

    *        *        *        *

Well--in upper-ten-dom
    Let him rest in peace,
And may his investments
    Cent, per cent, increase:
Though on earth for no one
    Cares the millionaire,
So does NOT exactly
    His devoted--heir!

    *        *        *        *

There's a useful moral
    Woven with my rhyme,
Which may be considered
    At--some other time:
Crockery is not porcelain--
    It is merely delf--
And the kind most common
    Is the man himself.