“Thy coffee, Tom,‘ s untasted,
And thy egg is very cold;
Thy cheeks are wan and wasted,
Not rosy as of old.
My boy, what has come o'er ye?
You surely are not well!
Try some of that ham before ye,
And then, Tom, ring the bell!”
“I cannot eat, my mother,
My tongue is parched and bound,
And my head, somehow or other,
Is swimming round and round.
In my eyes there is a fulness,
And my pulse is beating quick;
On my brain is a weight of dulness:
Oh, mother, I am sick!”
“These long, long nights of watching
Are killing you outright;
The evening dews are catching,
And you're out every night.
Why does that horrid grumbler,
Old Inkpen, work you so?”
“My head! Oh, that tenth tumbler!
‘ Twas that which wrought my woe!”