NOTHING TO DO.

To

WILLIAM A. BUTLER, Esq.,
AUTHOR OF
"NOTHING TO WEAR,"
This Poem
IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED.

Nothing to Do.

Augustus Fitz-Herbert, as all are aware,

Having crossed the Atlantic, and got a moustache on,

Likewise being son of a known millionaire,

Stands of course on the very top round of the fashion.

Being taught to consider himself, from his birth,

As one of the privileged ones of the earth,

He cherishes deep and befitting disdain

For those who don't live in the Fifth Avenue,

As entirely unworthy the notice or thought

Of the heir of two millions and nothing to do.

He calls them canaille, which I'm credibly told

Is the only French word which he caught when away;

And though, in my case, if I might be so bold,

I should say it scarce paid one for half a year's stay,

The heir of two millions and nothing to do,

Who lives in a palace in Fifth Avenue,

As a matter of course, is no fitting comparison

For the heir of an inkstand and something to do,

Who lodges up stairs, in the house of Miss Harrison.

In this model republic, this land of the free—

So our orators call it, and why should not we?—

'Tis refreshing to know that without pedigree

A man may still climb to the top of the tree;

That questions of family, rank, and high birth,

All bow to the query, How much is he worth?

That John Smith, plebeian, who forty years since

Walked Broadway barefooted, now rides as a prince;