Holding old post-obits and IOUs,
Who hunted him up and hunted him down,
He left Limoges, the capital town,
For his country castle Chalus,
(As spendthrift lords to Boulogne repair,
To give their estates a chance to air,)
And went to turning fallows;
At least, he ordered it, (much the same,)
And went himself in pursuit of game
Or any rural pleasure,
Till one fine day, as he rode away,
A serf came running behind to say
They'd found a crock of treasure.
No more he thought of hawk or hound,
But spurred to the spot, and there he found,
Beyond his boldest thoughts,
A sum to set him afloat again,--
The leading figure, 'twas very plain,
Was followed by several 0s.

Oh, who can tell of the schemes that flew
Through his head, as the treasure met his view,
And he knew that again his note was good?
He may have felt as a debtor would
Who has dodged a dogging dun,
Or a bank-cashier in his hour of dread
With brokers behind and breakers ahead,
Or a blood with his last "upon the red,"--
And each expecting a run.
What should he do? 'Twas very true