Back further than
        I know, in San
  Francisco dwelt a wealthy man.
        So rich was he
        That none could be
  Wise, good and great in like degree.

        'Tis true he wrought,
        In deed or thought,
  But few of all the things he ought;
        But men said: "Who
        Would wish him to?
  Great souls are born to be, not do!"

        One thing, indeed,
        He did, we read,
  Which was becoming, all agreed:
        Grown provident,
        Ere life was spent
  He built a mighty monument.

        For longer than
        I know, in San
  Francisco lived a beggar man;
        And when in bed
        They found him dead—
  "Just like the scamp!" the people said.

        He died, they say,
        On the same day
  His wealthy neighbor passed away.
        What matters it
        When beggars quit
  Their beats? I answer: Not a bit.

        They got a spade
        And pick and made
  A hole, and there the chap was laid.
        "He asked for bread,"
        'Twas neatly said:
  "He'll get not even a stone instead."

        The years rolled round:
        His humble mound
  Sank to the level of the ground;
        And men forgot
        That the bare spot
  Was like (and was) the beggar's lot.

        Forgotten, too,
        Was t'other, who
  Had reared the monument to woo
        Inconstant Fame,
        Though still his name
  Shouted in granite just the same.

        That name, I swear,
        They both did bear
  The beggar and the millionaire.
        That lofty tomb,
        Then, honored—whom?
  For argument here's ample room.

        I'll not debate,
        But only state
  The scamp first claimed it at the Gate.
        St. Peter, proud
        To serve him, bowed
  And showed him to the softest cloud.