To the Terrestrial Globe.: By a Miserable Wretch
ROLL on, thou ball, roll on!Through pathless realms of SpaceRoll 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 airRoll 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.