Volume 10 — A NEW YEAR IDYL

BY EUGENE FIELD

Upon this happy New Year night, A roach crawls up my pot of paste, And begs me for a tiny taste. Aye, eat thy fill, for it is right That while the rest of earth is glad, And bells are ringing wild and free, Thou shouldst not, gentle roachling, be Forlorn and gaunt and weak and sad. This paste to-night especially For thee and all thy kind I fixed, You'll find some whiskey in it mixed, For which you have to thank but me. So freely of the banquet take, And if you chance to find a drop Of liquor, prithee do not stop But quaff it for thy stomach's sake. Why dost thou stand upon thy head, All etiquette requirements scorning, And sing "You won't go home till morning" And "Put me in my little bed"? Your tongue, fair roach, is very thick, Your eyes are red, your cheeks are pale, Your underpinning seems to fail, You are, I wot, full as a tick.

ENVOI

I think I see that roach's home, That roach's wife, with broom in hand, That roach come staggering homeward and Then all is glum and gloom and gloam.