It’s rather hard upon a man
 Who’s always done what in him lay
To wreck the struggling worker’s home,
 And take the poor man’s bread away,
To find when, having had a rest,
 He awakens, so to speak, from slumber,
He is not treated with respect,
 But looked upon as a back number.

It almost fills one with despair.
 It’s very much to be deplored
That honest effort should be met
 With such inadequate reward;
It damps the ardour of a man;
 When all is said and all is done,
What is the good of taking pains,
 If this is all that’s thought of one?

Illustrious Sully, strive no more
 To wipe away your last defeat;
Just leave the cotton ring alone,
 And shake its dust from off your feet.
Life offers other walks than this;
 Look round about you, and you’ll find
Plenty of other ways in which
 To be a nuisance to mankind.