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About this Poem 

From Ballads and Songs (London: Cassell and Company, 1896).

 

The Garret

     With pensive eyes the little room I view,
       Where, in my youth, I weathered it so long;
     With a wild mistress, a stanch friend or two,
       And a light heart still breaking into song:
     Making a mock of life, and all its cares,
       Rich in the glory of my rising sun,
     Lightly I vaulted up four pair of stairs,
       In the brave days when I was twenty-one.

     Yes; 'tis a garret—let him know't who will—
       There was my bed—full hard it was and small.
     My table there—and I decipher still
       Half a lame couplet charcoaled on the wall.
     Ye joys, that Time hath swept with him away,
       Come to mine eyes, ye dreams of love and fun;
     For you I pawned my watch how many a day,
       In the brave days when I was twenty-one.

     And see my little Jessy, first of all;
       She comes with pouting lips and sparkling eyes:
     Behold, how roguishly she pins her shawl
       Across the narrow casement, curtain-wise;
     Now by the bed her petticoat glides down,
       And when did woman look the worse in none?
     I have heard since who paid for many a gown,
       In the brave days when I was twenty-one.

     One jolly evening, when my friends and I
       Made happy music with our songs and cheers,
     A shout of triumph mounted up thus high,
       And distant cannon opened on our ears:
     We rise,—we join in the triumphant strain,—
       Napoleon conquers—Austerlitz is won—
     Tyrants shall never tread us down again,
       In the brave days when I was twenty-one.

     Let us begone—the place is sad and strange—
       How far, far off, these happy times appear;
     All that I have to live I'd gladly change
       For one such month as I have wasted here—
     To draw long dreams of beauty, love, and power,
       From founts of hope that never will outrun,
     And drink all life's quintessence in an hour,
       Give me the days when I was twenty-one!

This poem is in the public domain.

This poem is in the public domain.

William Makepeace Thackeray

William Makepeace Thackeray, born July 18, 1811, was an English writer best known for his novels, particularly The History of Henry Esmond, Esq. (The Mershon Company Publishers, 1852) and Vanity Fair (Bradbury and Evans, 1848). While in school, Thackeray began writing poems, which he published in a number of magazines, chiefly Fraser and Punch. He died on December 24, 1863.

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  An igstrawnary tail I vill tell you this veek—
  I stood in the Court of A'Beckett the Beak,
  Vere Mrs. Jane Roney, a vidow, I see,
  Who charged Mary Brown with a robbin of she.

  This Mary was pore and in misery once,
  And she came to Mrs. Roney it's more than twelve monce.
  She adn't got no bed,
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  You've all heard of Larry O'Toole,
  Of the beautiful town of Drumgoole;
    He had but one eye,
    To ogle ye by—
  Oh, murther, but that was a jew'l!
    A fool
  He made of de girls, dis O'Toole.

  'Twas he was the boy didn't fail,
  That tuck down pataties and mail;
    He never would shrink
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    Ye Genii of the nation,
    Who look with veneration.
  And Ireland's desolation onsaysingly deplore;
    Ye sons of General Jackson,
    Who thrample on the Saxon,
  Attend to the thransaction upon Shannon shore,

    When William, Duke of Schumbug,
    A tyrant and a humbug,
  With cannon and with thunder