At midnight, in his room so small,
A youth was dreaming of the hour
When clients good his purse would fill,
And give him wealth and power.
Through Chitty, Kent, and Coke he bore
Large fees as a solicitor—
In dreams the voice of Fame he hears;
The Future gives a kindly nudge,
And seats him on the Bench a Judge.
An hour pass'd on—the youth awoke,
That bright dream was his last!
He woke to hear the ladies shriek:
"The Fair! Subscribe¡ the Fair this week¡"
He woke to pass through dire mishap,
To buy dolls, chairs, and smoking-cap!
And letters through the office pass'd
As thick as hail-stones in the street.
What called each voice as Syren sweet,
Each lady from her lair—
"Buy! 'till the last arm-chair is gone;
Buy! 'till each worsted shawl is drawn;
Buy! for the soldiers all forlorn,
From this, our Brooklyn Fair!"
They talked like women, long and well!
He brought more things than I could tell!
They sold, as they alone could sell;
He yielded everywhere!