Once upon a morning dismal, as I smoked in blues abysmal, Gazing at the curious patterns on the dressing gown I wore, While my cat her milk was lapping, suddenly there came a tapping, Like a fellow’s knuckles rapping, rapping at my chamber door; “It’s that nuisance Smith,” I muttered, rapping at my chamber door―― He may rap his fingers sore.” II. Ah! I do remember clearly small was then my income yearly, And to pay my lodging nearly did my slight finances floor; And my prospects, never sunny, fishy were as any tunny, And I sadly wanted money, money to pay Baize and Blore, Pay the fashionable tailors called in Oxford Baize and Blore, Who will dun me evermore. III. But my cat, prophetic pussy, now got ominously fussy, Clawed me, pawed me with her talons as she’d never done before; So that now to stay her terror and convince her of her error, “Tabby,” said I, “it is Smith entreating entrance at my door; It’s that feeble Smith demanding entrance at my chamber door, Only Smith and nothing more!” IV. Presently my chair removing, and most seriously reproving My grimalkin, for the dreadful way in which she spat and swore, From my writing-table’s kneehole stole I softly to the weehole Which the people call the keyhole――keyhole of my chamber door, Peeping through it saw another eye the other side the door, Looking at me――nothing more. V. Straight to stop that sly eye’s prying, to the key my lips applying, Blew I such a puff of smoke as no man ever puffed before; Then I heard him backward starting, rub his eye as if ’twere smarting, And he seemed to be departing, so I whispered, “Is it sore?” This I whispered through the keyhole; echo answered “It is sore.” Answered thus, and nothing more. VI. Back I went and felt elated, and my blues had now abated, When again I heard that rapping rather louder than before; “Surely,” said I, rising, “surely, if he thinks I’ll sit demurely While he makes that din securely, his mistake he shall deplore; If I only catch him at it, his misdeed he shall deplore―― He shall not annoy me more.” VII. Open here I flung the portal, when there entered in a mortal, Crooked legged, with clothes too short all――seedy garments that he wore; Never once “good morning” bade me――not a bow or scrape he made me, But upon my table laid me down a bill from Baize and Blore, Took his stand upon the oilcloth just within my chamber door, Stood and hiccupped――nothing more. VIII.