There's a lodger lives on the first floor,
(My lodgings are up in the garret,)
At night and at morn he taketh a horn
And calleth his neighbors to share it,--
A horn so long, and a horn so strong,
I wonder how they can bear it.

I don't mean to say that he drinks,
For that were a joke or a scandal;
But, every one knows it, he night and day blows it;--
I wish he'd blow out like a candle!
His horn is so long, and he blows it so strong,
He would make Handel fly off the handle.

By taking a horn I don't hint
That he swigs either rum, gin, or whiskey;
It's _we_ who drink in his din worse than gin,
His strains that attempt to be frisky,
But are grievously sad.--A donkey, I add,
Is as musical, braying in _his_ key.

It's a puzzle to know what he's at;
I could pity him, if it were madness:
I never yet knew him to play a tune through,
And it gives me more anger than sadness
To hear his horn stutter and stammer to utter
Its various abortions of badness.

At his wide open window he stands,