The poem
I'll tell you what you wanderers, who drift from town to town; Don't look into a good girl's eyes, until you've settled down. It's hard to go away alone and leave old chums behind- It's hard to travel steerage when your tastes are more refined- To reach a place when times are bad, and to be standing there, No money in your pocket nor a decent rag to wear. But be forced from that fond clasp, from that last clinging kiss- By poverty! There is on earth no harder thing than this.