Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Ill Wind

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The Ill Wind.
In debt, deserted, and forlorn, A melancholy elfResolved, 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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