A LOUNGER.

He leant against a lamp-post, lost

In some mysterious reverie:

His head was bowed; his arms were crossed;

He yawned, and glanced evasively:

Uncrossed his arms, and slowly put

Them back again, and scratched his side —

Shifted his weight from foot to foot,

And gazed out no-ward, idle-eyed.

Grotesque of form and face and dress,

And picturesque in every way —

A figure that from day to day

Drooped with a limper laziness;

A figure such as artists lean,

In pictures where distress is seen,

Against low hovels where we guess

No happiness has ever been.