by Thomas Moore
Of all the men one meets about,
There’s none like Jack—he’s everywhere:
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!’