Make ends meet

And had you naught besides to bring?

Oh yes! one grave and solemn prayer; Let them for him three hundred masses

sing! But in my pockets, I have nothing there.

No trinket! no love - token did he send! What every journeyman safe in his

pouch will hoard There for remembrance fondly stored, And rather hungers,

Madam, in truth, it grieves me sore, But he his gold not lavishly hath spent.

His failings too he deeply did repent, Ay! and his evil plight bewail'd still more.

Alas! That men should thus be doomed to woe! I for his soul will many a