C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Fortune

RAP! rap!—Is that my lass—

Rap! rap!—is rapping there?

It is Fortune. Let her pass!

I’ll not open the door to her.

Rap! rap!—

All of my friends are making gay

My little room, with lips wine-wet:

We only wait for you, Lisette!

Fortune! you may go your way.

Rap! rap!—

If we might credit half her boast,

What wonders gold has in its gift!

Well, we have twenty bottles left

And still some credit with our host.

Rap! rap!—

Her pearls, and rubies too, she quotes,

And mantles more than sumptuous:

Lord! but the purple’s naught to us,—

We’re just now taking off our coats.

Rap! rap!—

She treats us as the rawest youths,

With talk of genius and of fame:

Thank calumny, alas, for shame!

Our faith is spoiled in laurel growths.

Rap! rap!—

Far from our pleasures, we care not

Her highest heavens to attain;

She fills her big balloons in vain

Till we have swamped our little boat.

Rap! rap!—

Yet all our neighbors crowd to be

Within her ring of promises,

Ah! surely, friends! our mistresses

Will cheat us more agreeably.

Rap! rap!—