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.