Would You Believe It?

One year ago I wished that I
A banker great might be
With a hundred million dollars
And financial majesty;

A mighty Wall Street banker
With a whopping lot of power
And an income of somewhere around
A thousand plunks per hour;

A solid Wall Street banker
With securities in sacks
And with clever men to show me
How to pay no income tax;

A wealthy Wall Street banker
Who raked in cash like hay;
I wished that just a year ago
And I wish the same today

Ellis Parker Butler

Ellis Parker Butler was an American author, humorist, and poet, best known for his short story 'Pigs Is Pigs.' Born on December 5, 1869, in Muscatine, Iowa, Butler became a prolific writer, contributing to numerous magazines and books over his career. He is remembered for his wit and humor, which marked his work. Butler passed away on September 13, 1937.

Ellis Parker Butler

A Lost Angel

Ellis Parker Butler, Simple Poetry

Merry Christmas And Happy New Year!

Ellis Parker Butler, Simple Poetry

The Hunter

Ellis Parker Butler, Simple Poetry

Judgment Day

Ellis Parker Butler, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

A Wall-Street Lyric.

John was thought both rich and great--
    Dick so-so, but comfortable:
John lived at a splendid rate--
    Coach and horses in his stable.
John could ride when Dick should walk--
(This excited people's talk!)--
For John's wealth, Dick's rugged health
    Few would exchange if they were able!

Dick was friendly years ago--
    With ingratitude John paid him:
Dick found this was always so
    When John had a chance to aid him.
John still cut a brilliant dash,
While he could command the cash,
But for Dick, whom John would kick,
    At last a change of luck has made him!

John, 'tis said, is "bound" to lose
    Lots by rail, and 'bus, and cable!
And the banks his notes refuse,
    Now they think his state unstable.
This may be a stor...

George Pope Morris

A Millionaire.

Aw wodn't gie a penny piece
To be a millionaire,
For him 'at's little cattle, is
The chap wi' little care.
Jewels may flash o'er achin broos,
An silken robes may hide
Bosoms all fair to look upon,
Whear braikin hearts abide.

Gie me enuff for daily needs,
An just a bit to spend;
Enuff to pay mi honest way,
An help a strugglin friend.
Aw'll be contented it aw keep
The wolf from off mi door;
Aw'll envy nubdy o' ther brass,
An nivver dream awm poor.

Dewdrops 'at shine i'th' early morn
Are diamons for me.
An jewels glint i' ivvery tint,
On th' hill or daan i'th' lea.
My sweet musicianers are burds
At tune their joyous lay,
Araand mi cottage winder,
An nivver strike for pay.

Aw lang for noa fine carriages

John Hartley

Merdle The Banker.

Now Merdle this day having toss'd with his horns
The bears that were pulling so hard at the stocks,
And gored every bull that was treading his corns,
Had lined all his pockets with "plenty of rocks,"
And home now was driving at "two forty" speed,
Where dinner was waiting--"a jolly good feed."

Himself feeling happy, he knew by my looks,
A case full of sadness and deep destitution
Was present in person, not read of in books,
Appealing in pity for an alms institution.

Horatio Alger, Jr.

The Run Upon The Bankers[1]

The bold encroachers on the deep
    Gain by degrees huge tracts of land,
Till Neptune, with one general sweep,
    Turns all again to barren strand.

The multitude's capricious pranks
    Are said to represent the seas,
Breaking the bankers and the banks,
    Resume their own whene'er they please.

Money, the life-blood of the nation,
    Corrupts and stagnates in the veins,
Unless a proper circulation
    Its motion and its heat maintains.

Because 'tis lordly not to pay,
    Quakers and aldermen in state,
Like peers, have levees every day
    Of duns attending at their gate.

We want our money on the nail;
    The banker's ruin'd if he pays:
They seem to act an ancient tale;
    The birds are met to strip the jays.

Jonathan Swift

The Tin Bank.

Speaking of banks, I'm bound to say
That a bank of tin is far the best,
And I know of one that has stood for years
In a pleasant home away out west.
It has stood for years on the mantelpiece
Between the clock and the Wedgwood plate--
A wonderful bank, as you'll concede
When you've heard the things I'll now relate.

This bank was made of McKinley tin,
Well soldered up at sides and back;
But it didn't resemble tin at all,
For they'd painted it over an iron black.
And that it really was a bank
'Twas an easy thing to see and say,
For above the door in gorgeous red
Appeared the letters B-A-N-K!

The bank had been so well devised
And wrought so cunningly that when
You put your money in at the hole
It couldn't get out of that hole again!

Eugene Field

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 but...

George Pope Morris