To the Terrestrial Globe
By a Miserable Wretch
Roll on, thou ball, roll on!
Through pathless realms of Space
Roll on!
What, though I’m in a sorry case?
What, though I cannot meet my bills?
What, though I suffer toothache’s ills?
What, though I swallow countless pills?
Never you mind!
Roll on!
Roll on, thou ball, roll on!
Through seas of inky air
Roll on!
It’s true I’ve got no shirts to wear;
It’s true my butcher’s bill is due;
It’s true my prospects all look blue—
But don’t let that unsettle you!
Never you mind!
Roll on!
(It rolls on.)