“Five hundred pounds!” rapped out a voice near by;
“Six hundred!” “Seven!” “Eight!” And then a shout:
“A thousand pounds!” Oh, how I thrilled to hear!
Oh, how the bids went up by leaps, by bounds!
And then a silence; then the auctioneer:
“It's going! Going! Gone! Three thousand pounds!”
Three thousand pounds! A frenzy leapt in me.
“That picture’s mine,” I cried; “I’m David Strong.
I painted it, this famished wretch you see;
I did it, I, and sold it for a song.
And in a garret three small hours ago
My daughter died for want of Christian care.
Look, look at me!… Is it to mock my woe
You pay three thousand for my picture there?”…
God! I stumbled blindly from the hall;
The city crashed on me, the fiendish sounds
Of cruelty and strife, but over all
“Three thousand pounds!” I heard; “Three thousand pounds!”
There, that’s my story, sir; it isn't gay.
Tales of the Poor are never very bright…
You’ll look for me next time you pass this way…
I hope you’ll find me, sir; good-night, good-night.
