This is the legend poets troll
Of One on some first-floor
Who keeps a brimming money-bowl
Beside his office door.
And ev'ry morn the office waif --
A small, old-fashioned boy --
Doth fill it gaily from the safe
With jingling, golden joy.
Then, as the day draws slowly on,
The bards creep up the stair
And feast their hollow eyes upon
The treasure gleaming there.
A tattered sign that swings above
The bowl gives all to know,
"Take what you need, with my best love!
Don't count; to count is low."
So, stooping to the calabash,
Each bard drops in a tear,
And takes a handful of cash
That buys the soothing beer.
They steal like ghosts adown the stair,
They creep like spectres up;
And gradually pubwards bear
The Treasure of the Cup.
Next morn the office waif appears
To sweep with might and main;
He brushes up the poets' tears,
And fills the bowl again.
This is the legend poets troll
Of some good editor
Who keeps a brimming money bowl
Beside his office door.
First published in The Bulletin, 23 July 1908
