To the Terrestrial Globe by William Schwenck Gilbert

BY A MISERABLE WRETCH.

Roll on, thou ball, roll on!
Through pathless realms of space
Roll on!
What though I ‘m in a sorry case?
What though I cannot meet my bills?
What though I suffer toothache’s ills?
What though I swallow countless pills?
Never you mind!
Roll on!
Roll on, thou ball, roll on!
Through seas of inky air
Roll on!
It ‘s true I ‘ve got no shirts to wear,
It ‘s true my butcher’s bill is due,
It ‘s true my prospects all look blue,—
But don’t let that unsettle you!
Never you mind!
Roll on!
[It rolls on.]