William Schwenck Gilbert

The Bab Ballads. To the Terrestrial Globe

BY A MISERABLE WRETCH

Roll on, thou ball, roll on!
Through pathless realms of Space
         Roll on!
What though I’m in a sorry case?
What though I cannot meet my bills?
What though I suffer toothache’s ills?
What though I swallow countless pills?
      Never you mind!
         Roll on!

Roll on, thou ball, roll on!
Through seas of inky air
         Roll on!
It’s true I’ve got no shirts to wear;
It’s true my butcher’s bill is due;
It’s true my prospects all look blue—
But don’t let that unsettle you!
      Never you mind!
         Roll on!