“True,” would he say, “I am not poor: What then? may I not wish for more? This paltry mill provides me food, Keeps dame and I from famine—good! Yet, mark the labour I endure, A meagre living to secure. ’Tis lucky that I have my health, Since this poor mill is all my wealth; Though irksome, I confess, to toil To catch Dame Fortune’s niggard smile, When she so prodigal can be To men of less desert than me, Throwing her bounties in their lap, Almost without their asking—slap! ’Twas but to-day that I was told, With truth I’ll vouch, a pan of gold Seen by a neighbour in a dream— —Thrice dreamt on, though, as it should seem— My neighbour dug for, as directed— (Shame had such warning been neglected!)— Dug for, and, better still, he found A treasure hidden under ground, In the same spot, or thereabout, His happy dream had pointed out. Such riches _now_ his coffers fill, No more he labours, let who will. I wish with all my heart,” he cried, “I wish such luck may me betide!” So saying, from the bags he started, While through his brain vague fancies darted, And with a brisker air and gait He left the mill to seek his Kate, The golden vision to relate. At eve, before the cottage-door, They talk’d the wondrous story o’er; And every time it was repeated, With warmer hope Whang’s brain was heated. Complacent to his bed he hies, Certain, when sleep should close his eyes, Like _him_ to dream who gain’d the prize: And doubtless _might_ have dream’d the same; But neither sleep nor vision came. He toss’d and turn’d him all night long, Tried all manœuvres—all were wrong. “Had never known the like before, Was us’d to sleep quite sound, and snore; But now, when he desir’d it most, The art to sleep seem’d wholly lost.”