Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Ill Wind

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The Ill Wind.
In debt, deserted, and forlorn,
 A melancholy elf
Resolved, upon a Monday morn,
 To go and hang himself.

He reached the tree, when lo! he views
 A pot of gold concealed;
He snatched it up, threw down the noose,
 And scampered from the field.

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The owner camo—found out the theft,
 And, having scratched his head,
Took up the rope the other left,
 And hung himself instead.

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