THE BOOK HUNTER

I've spent all my money in chasing

For books that are costly and rare;

I've made myself bankrupt in tracing

Each prize to its ultimate lair.

And now I'm a ruined collector,

Impoverished, ragged, and thin,

Reduced to a vanishing spectre,

Because of my prodigal sin.

How often I've called upon Foley,

The man who's a friend of the cranks;

Knows books that are witty or holy,

And whether they're prizes or blanks.

For volumes on paper or vellum

He has a most accurate eye,

And always is willing to sell‘ em

To dreamers like me who will buy.

My purse requires fences and hedges,

Alas! it will never stay shut;

My coat-sleeves now have deckle edges,

My hair is unkempt and “uncut.”

My coat is a true first edition,

And rusty from shoulder to waist;

My trousers are out of condition,

Their “colophon” worn and defaced.

My shoes have been long out of fashion,

“Crushed leather” they both seem to be;

My hat is a thing for compassion,

The kind that is labelled “n. d.”

My vest from its binding is broken,

It's what the French call a relique;

What I think of it cannot be spoken,

Its catalogue mark is “unique.”

I'm a book that is thumbed and untidy,

The only one left of the set;

I'm sure I was issued on Friday,

For fate is unkind to me yet.

My text has been cruelly garbled

By a destiny harder than flint;

But I wait for my grave to be “marbled,”

And then I shall be out of print.