OR, THE WORLD HAS CHANGED. 197 



WHO IS POOR? 



We may be poor in worldly gain, 



May be poor in what's called lucre, 

 Our purse strings ever were too short — 



No, we never was much on euchre. 

 Yet we are not without possessions 



Too rich for sordid gold to buy. 

 My wife is worth a nameless price, 



And we rate her none too high. 

 Have our boy, and he's all right, 



He's the gentleman, every inch ; 

 He's as triie as steel, and staunch. 



And we can trust him in a pinch. 

 Our old fiddle still is left to us. 



Have had it nigh on to fifty years ; 

 Has been in all our ups and downs, 



And still shares our joys and fears. 

 Wife's old piano still sounds sweet, 



Though 'twas bought before the war ; 

 Like Mary's lamb, has stuck to us, 



Though it has gotten many a scar. 

 And there's our old buckhorn pipe. 



Our consolation in every wail ; 

 Dear reminder of former days, 



Will go with us down to the vale. 

 Our old horn hangs by the wall, 



And it is not unknown to fame ; 

 Though sighing now among the willows, 



It grieves but knows no shame. 



