OVER the country, from coast to coast, I've travelled considerable, more or less; I've been to Canarsie and Painted Post, I've been to St. Louis and Holderness. But withersoever I may progress. With baggage enough for a fortnight's stay, I find, with a sorrow I can't repress, Mine is the trunk that goes astray. I never—no,@3never!@1—was one to boast; Though me the Graces have seemed to bless With this honour, a greater than comes to most, I bear it meekly, without duress. Of other affairs I make no mess; I'm lucky at every game I play; Yet, packed with what clothing I may possess, Mine is the trunk that goes astray. Others who travel comprise a host Carrying a million trunks, I guess; But never the shadow, hint, or ghost Of a chance one goes to the wrong address. But @3my@1 trunk travels the whole U. S.— Or, as some might put it, the U. S. A.— You ask me does it miscarry? YES! Mine is the trunk that goes astray. L'ENVOI Prince, it worries me, I confess, Every time that I go away. And this is my major and one distress: Mine is the trunk that goes astray. |