OR,

BALLAD OF THE FREE LUNCH BAR.

BY

CHRISTOPHER CORKSCREW.

W. I. WHITING,

PUBLISHER,

27 BEAVER STREET, NEW YORK.

DEDICATION.

To the army of tramps who are pounding the earth,
The lame, and the lazy, in all sorts of weather,
Who think with a sigh of the day of their birth,
So hard to keep soul and the body together,

Το you these few lines, without hoping for gain,
I feelingly dedicate, with the warm wish,
That when a kind Heaven good porridge doth rain,
We may not be found with a bottom-up dish.

Yet, if fame is wind, as the moralists say,

It must be apparent, without any doubt,

The reverse will hold good, hence meet us what may, We're sure of high honors when beating about.

Philosophers argue each station hath charms.

Who knows but to fortune we yet may be debtor; As things are, mutability hath no alarms,

For come any change, it must surely come better.