The poem
And if, my friend, you'd have it end, There's naught to hear or tell. But need you try to black my eye In wishing me farewell.
Though I admit an edged wit In woe is warranted, May I be frank? . . . Such words as "-" Are better left unsaid.
There's rosemary for you and me; But is it usual, dear, To hire a man, and fill a van By way of souvenir?
