OF ALL THE MEN

by: Thomas Moore (1779-1852)

      F all the men one meets about,
      There's none like Jack -- he's everywhere:
      At church -- park -- auction -- dinner -- rout --
      Go when and where you will, he's there.
      Try the West End, he's at your back --
      Meets you, like Eurus, in the East --
      You're call'd upon for 'How do, Jack?'
      One hundred times a day, at least.
      A friend of his one evening said,
      As home he took his pensive way,
      'Upon my soul, I fear Jack's dead --
      I've seen him but three times to-day!'

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