Poetry Archives

Up in my garret bleak and bare
I tilted back on my broken chair,
And my three old pals were with me there,
        Hunger and Thirst and Cold;
Hunger scowled at his scurvy mate:
Cold cowered down by the hollow grate,
And I hated them with a deadly hate
        As old as life is old.

So up in my garret that’s near the sky
I smiled a smile that was thin and dry:
“You’ve roomed with me twenty year,” said I,
         “Hunger and Thirst and Cold;
But now, begone down the broken stair!
I’ve suffered enough of your spite . . . so there!”
Bang! Bang! I slapped on the table bare
        A glittering heap of gold.

“Red flames will jewel my wine to-night;
I’ll loose my belt that you’ve lugged so tight;
Ha! Ha! Dame Fortune is smiling bright;
        The stuff of my brain I’ve sold;
Canaille of the gutter, up! Away!
You’ve battened on me for a bitter-long day;
But I’m driving you forth, and forever and aye,
        Hunger and Thirst and Cold.”

So I kicked them out with a scornful roar;
Yet, oh, they turned at the garret door;
Quietly there they spoke once more:
        “The tale is not all told.
It’s au revoir, but it’s not good-by;
We’re yours, old chap, till the day you die;
Laugh on, you fool! Oh, you’ll never defy
        Hunger and Thirst and Cold.”