Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/A Little More

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A Little More.
(At Thirty.)Five hundred dollars I have saved— A rather moderate store—No matter: I shall be content When I've a little more.
(At Forty.)Well, I can count ten thousand now— That's better than before;And I may well be satisfied When I've a little more.
(At Fifty.)Some fifty thousand—pretty well— But I have earned it sore;However, I shall not complain When I've a little more.
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(At Sixty.)One hundred thousand—sick and old—Ah! life is half a bore:Yet I can be content to liveWhen I've a little more.
(At Seventy.)He dies—and to his greedy heirsHe leaves a countless store;His wealth has purchased him a tomb—And very little more.

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