Book VIII: The Cobbler and the Financier

A cobbler sang from morn till night;'Twas sweet and marvellous to hear,His trills and quavers told the earOf more contentment and delight,Enjoy'd by that laborious wightThan e'er enjoy'd the sages seven,Or any mortals short of heaven.His neighbour, on the other hand,With gold in plenty at command,But little sang, and slumber'd less--A financier of great success.If e'er he dozed, at break of day,The cobbler's song drove sleep away;And much he wish'd that Heaven had madeSleep a commodity of trade,In market sold, like food and drink,So much an hour, so much a wink.At last, our songster did he callTo meet him in his princely hall.Said he, 'Now, honest Gregory,What may your yearly earnings be?''My yearly earnings! faith, good sir,I never go, at once, so far,'The cheerful cobbler said,And queerly scratch'd his head,--'I never reckon in that way,But cobble on from day to day,Content with daily bread.''Indeed! Well, Gregory, pray,What may your earnings be per day?''Why, sometimes more and sometimes less.The worst of all, I must confess,(And but for which our gains would beA pretty sight, indeed, to see,)Is that the days are made so manyIn which we cannot earn a penny--The sorest ill the poor man feels:They tread upon each other's heels,Those idle days of holy saints!And though the year is shingled o'er,The parson keeps a-finding more!'With smiles provoked by these complaints,Replied the lordly financier,'I'll give you better cause to sing.These hundred pounds I hand you hereWill make you happy as a king.Go, spend them with a frugal heed;They'll long supply your every need.'The cobbler thought the silver moreThan he had ever dream'd before,The mines for ages could produce,Or world, with all its people, use.He took it home, and there did hide--And with it laid his joy aside.No more of song, no more of sleep,But cares, suspicions in their stead,And false alarms, by fancy fed.His eyes and ears their vigils keep,And not a cat can tread the floorBut seems a thief slipp'd through the door.At last, poor man!Up to the financier he ran,--Then in his morning nap profound:'O, give me back my songs,' cried he,'And sleep, that used so sweet to be,And take the money, every pound!'