The day is done, and darkness From the wing of night is loosed,As a feather is wafted downward From a chicken going to roost.
I see the lights of the baker Gleam through the rain and mist,And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, That I cannot well resist.
A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not like being sick,And resembles sorrow only As a brick-bat resembles a brick.
Come, get for me some supper,-- A good and regular meal,That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the pain I feel.
Not from the pastry's baker's, Not from the shops for cake,I wouldn't give a farthing For all that they can make.
For, like the soup at dinner, Such things would but suggestSome dishes more substantial, And to-night I want the best.
Go to some honest butcher, Whose beef is fresh and niceAs any they have in the city, And get a liberal slice.
Such things through days of labor, And nights devoid of ease,For sad and desperate feelings Are wonderful remedies.
They have an astonishing power To aid and reinforce,And come like the "Finally, brethern," That follows a long discourse.
Then get me a tender sirloin From off the bench or hook,And lend to its sterling goodness The silence of the cook.
And the night shall be filled with comfort, And the cares with which it begunShall fold up their blankets like Indians, And silently cut and run.
