 The Dismissed. By George Pope Morris. Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Gachuk. I suppose she was right in rejecting my suit. But why did she kick me downstairs? Halux discarded. The wing of my spirit is broken. My day-star of hope has declined. For a month not a word have I spoken. That's either polite or refined. My mind's like the sky in bad weather. When mist clouds around us are curled. And viewing myself altogether. I'm the various wretch in the world. I wander about like a vagrant. I spend half my time in the street. My conducts improper and flagrant. For I quarrel with all that I meet. My dress too is wholly neglected. My hat I pull over my brow. And I look like a fellow suspected of wishing to kick up a row. In vain I've endeavored to borrow from friends some material aid. For my landlady views me with sorrow when she thinks of the bill that's unpaid. Abroad my acquaintances flout me. The ladies cry, bless us, look there. And the little boys cluster about me. And sensible citizens stare. One says he's a victim too cupid. Another is conducts too bad. A third he is awfully stupid. A fourth he is perfectly mad. And then I am watched like a bandit. Mankind with me all are at strife. By heaven no longer I'll stand it. But quick put an end to my life. I've thought of the means, yet I shudder. At dagger or rat's bane or rope. At drawing with lancet my blood. Or at razor without any soap. Suppose I should fall in a duel. And thus leave the stage with a claw. But to die with a bullet is cruel. Besides it would be breaking the law. Yet one way remains to the river. I'll fly from the godings of care. But drown, oh the thought makes me shiver. A terrible death I declare. Ah no, I'll once more see my kitty. And parry her cruel disdain. Beseech her to take me in pity. And never dismiss me again. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Dismissed by George Pope Morris. Read for LibriVox.org by Bill Moseley. Lano County, Texas, USA. I suppose she was right in rejecting my suit. But why did she kick me downstairs? Alex Iscardi. The wing of my spirit is broken. My day star of hope has declined. For a month not a word have I spoken that's either polite or refined. My mind's like the sky in bad weather. When mist clouds around us are curled and viewing myself all together, I'm the various wretch in the world. I wander about like a vagrant. I spend half my time in the street. My conduct's improper and flagrant for I quarrel with all that I meet. My dress too is wholly neglected. My hat I pull over my brow and I look like a fellow suspected of wishing to kick up a row. In vain I've endeavored to borrow from friends some material aid. For my landlady views me with sorrow when she thinks of the bill that's unpaid. Abroad my acquaintance is flout me. The ladies cry, bless us, look there, and the little boys cluster about me in sensible citizens' stare. One says, he's a victim to cupid. Another, his conduct's too bad. A third, he is awfully stupid. A fourth, he is perfectly mad. And then I am watched like a bandit. Mankind with me all are at strife. By heaven no longer I'll stand it, but quick put an end to my life. I've thought of the means, yet I shudder it, dagger or ratsbane or rope. I'd drawing lancet in my blood or razor without any soap. Suppose I should fall in a duel and thus leave the stage with ecla, that to die with a bullet is cruel. Besides, it would be breaking the law. Yet one way remains. To the river I'll fly from goading's of care. But drown? Oh, the thought makes me shiver. A terrible death I declare. Ah, no, I'll once more see my kitty and parry her cruel disdain, be see-ture to take me in pity and never dismiss me again. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Dismissed by George Pope Morris I suppose she was right in rejecting my suit. But why did she kick me downstairs? Halux discarded. The wing of my spirit is broken. My day-star of hope has declined. For a month not a word have I spoken that's either polite or refined. My mind's like the sky in bad weather, when misty clouds around us are curled, and viewing myself altogether, I am the various wretch in the world. I wonder about like a vagrant I spend half my time in the street, my conducts improper and flagrant, for I quarrel with awe that I meet. My dress too is wholly neglected, my hat I pull over my brow, and I look like a fellow suspected of wishing to kick up a row. In vain I've endeavoured to borrow from friends some material aid, for my landlady views me with sorrow when she thinks of the bill that's unpaid. Abroad my acquaintances flout me, the ladies cry, Bless us, look there! and the little boys cluster about me and sensible citizens stare. One says, he's a victim to Cupid. Another, his conduct's too bad. A third, he's awfully stupid. A fourth, he is perfectly mad. And then I am watched like a bandit, mankind with me all are at strife. But heaven no longer I'll stand it, but quick put an end to my life. I thought of the means, yet I shudder, that dagger, or rat's bane or rope, a drawing with lancet my blood, or at razor without any soap. Suppose I should fall in a duel, and thus leave the stage with a claw, but to die with a bullet is cruel. Besides, it would be breaking the law. Yet one way remains to the river. I'll fly from the goading's of care, but drown? Oh, the thought makes me shiver. Terrible death, I declare. Ah, no. I'll once more see my kitty, and perry her cruel disdain, beseech her to take me in pity, and never dismiss me again. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. I suppose she was right in rejecting my sit, but why did she kick me downstairs? Halux discarded. The wing of my spirit is broken, my day-star of hope has declined, for a month not a word have I spoken that's either polite or refined. My mind's like the sky in bad weather, when mist clouds around us are curled, and viewing myself altogether, I'm the various wretch in the world. I wander about like a vagrant. I spend half my time in the street, my conducts improper and flagrant, for I quarrel with all that I meet. My dress too is wholly neglected, my hat I pull over my brow, and I look like a fellow suspected of wishing to kick up a row. In vain, I've endeavoured to borrow from friends some material aid, for my landlady views me with sorrow when she thinks of the bill that's unpaid. Abroad, my acquaintances flout me. The ladies cry bless us, look there, on the little boy's cluster about me, and sensible citizens stare. One says he's a victim to Cupid, another his conducts too bad, a third he is awfully stupid, a fourth he is perfectly mad. And then I am watched like a bandit, some kind with me are all at strife, by heaven no longer I'll stand it. But quick put an end to my life. I've thought of the means, yet I shudder, at dagger or ratsbane or rope, at drawing with lancet my blood, or at razor without any soap. I suppose I should fall in a duel, and thus leave the stage with me clat. But to die with a bullet is cruel, besides to be breaking the law. Yet one way remains, to the river I'll fly from the goonings of care, but drawing, oh the thought makes me shiver, a terrible death I declare. Ah no, I'll once more see my kitty, and parry her cruel disdain, beseech her to take me in pity, and never dismiss me again. End of poem this recording is in the public domain. The Dismissed by George Pope Morris read for LibriVox.org by David Lawrence. I suppose she was right in rejecting my suit, but why did she kick me down the stairs? Halex discarded. The wing of my spirit is broken. My day-star of hope has declined. For a month not a word have I spoken that's either polite or refined. My mind's like the sky in bad weather, when mist clouds around us are curled, and viewing myself altogether I'm the various wretch in the world. I wander about like a vagrant. I spend half my time in the street, my conducts improper and flagrant, for I quarrel with all that I meet. My dress, too, is wholly neglected. My hat I pull over my brow, and I look like a fellow suspected of wishing to kick up a row. In vain I've endeavored to borrow from friends some material aid, for my landlady views me with sorrow when she thinks of the bill that's unpaid. Abroad my acquaintances flout me. The ladies cry, bless us, look there! And the little boys cluster about me, and sensible citizens stare. One says he's a victim to Cupid. Another, his conduct's too bad. A third, he is awful stupid. A fourth, he is perfectly mad. And then I am watched like a bandit. Mankind with me are all at strife. By heaven no longer I'll stand it, but quick put an end to my life. I've thought of the means, yet I shudder at dagger or rat-spain or rope. At drawing with lance at my blood or at razor without any soap. Suppose I should fall in a duel, and thus leave the stage with a clap, but to die with a bullet is cruel, besides to be breaking the law. Yet one way remains. To the river I'll fly from the goading's of care. But drown? Oh, the thought makes me shiver. A terrible death, I declare. Ah, no. I'll once more see my kitty and parry her cruel disdain, beseech her to take me in pity, and never dismiss me again. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Halak's discarded. My dress too is wholly neglected. My hat I pull over my brow, and I look like a fellow suspected of wishing to kick up a row. In vain I've endeavoured to borrow from friends some material aid, for my landlady views me with sorrow when she thinks of the bill that's unpaid. Abroad my acquaintances flout me, the ladies cry, bless us, look there! And the little boys clothe me with their hands, and the little boys cluster about me and sensible citizens stare. One says he's a victim to Cupid, another his conduct's too bad, a third he has awfully stupid, a fourth is perfectly mad. And then I am watched like a bandit, mankind with me all are at strife. By heaven no longer I'll stand it, but quick put an end to my life. I've thought of the means, yet I shudder at dagger or rat-spane or rope, at drawing with lance at my blood or at razor without any soap. Suppose I should fall in a duel and thus leave the stage with a claw, but to die with a bullet is cruel, besides to be breaking the law. Yet one way remains, to the river I'll fly from the goatings of care, but drown, the thought makes me shiver, a terrible death I declare. Ah, no, I'll once more see my kitty and parry her cruel disdain, beseech her to take me in pity and never dismiss me again. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Dismissed by George Pope Morris Read for LibriVox.org by Katarina Glovala I suppose she was right in rejecting my suit, but why did she kick me downstairs? Halak's discarded. The wing of my spirit is broken, my day-star of hope has declined, for a month not a word I have spoken that is either polite or refined. My mind's like the sky in bad weather when mist clouds around us are curled, and, viewing myself altogether, I am the various to wretch in the world. I wander about like a vagrant, I spend half my time in the street, my conduct improper and flagrant, for I quarrel with all that I meet. My dress too is wholly neglected, my hat I pulled over my brow, and I look like a fellow suspected of wishing to kick up a row. In vain I've endeavoured to borrow from friends some material aid, for my landlady views me with sorrow when she thinks of the bill that's unpaid. Abroad my acquaintances flout me, the ladies cry, bless us, look there, and the little boys cluster about me and sensible citizens stare. One says, he's a victim to Cupid, another, his conduct's too bad, a third, he's awfully stupid, a fourth, he's perfectly mad. And then I'm watched like a bandit, mankind with me all are at strife, by heaven no longer I stand it, but quick put an end to my life. I've thought of the means, yet I shudder at dagger or at spain or rope, at drawing with lens at my blood or at razor without any soap. I suppose I should fall in a duel, and thus leave the stage with ecla, but to die with a bullet is cruel, besides it would be breaking the law. Yet one way remains, to the river I'll fly from the goadings of care, but drown, oh the thought makes me shiver, a terrible death I declare. Ah, no, I'll once more see my kitty and parry her cruel disdain, beseech her to take me in pity and never dismiss me again. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Dismissed by George Pope Morris Read for LibriVox.org by Laurie Wilson I suppose she was right in rejecting my suit, but why did she kick me downstairs? Hollick's discarded. The wing of my spirit is broken, my day-star of hope has declined, for a month not a word have I spoken that's either polite or refined. My mind's like the sky in bad weather when Miss Cloud's roundess are curled and viewing myself altogether I'm the various wretch in the world. I wander about like a vagrant, I spend half my time in the street, my conduct's improper inflagrant for I quarrel with all that I meet. My dress too is wholly neglected, my hat I pull over my brow, and I look like a fellow suspected wishing to kick up a row. In vain I've endeavored to borrow from friends some material aid, for my landlady views me with sorrow when she thinks of the bill that's unpaid. Abroad my acquaintances flout me, the ladies cry, bless us, looky there! And the little boys cluster about me and sensible citizens stare. One says, he's a victim to Cupid. Another, his conduct's too bad. A third, ha-ha, he's awfully stupid. A fourth, he's perfectly mad. And then I am watched like a bandit. Mankind with me all are at strife. By heaven no longer I'll stand it, but quick put an end to my life. I've thought of the means, yet I shudder at dagger or rat's bane or rope, at drawing with lancet my blood or at razor without any soap. Suppose I should fall in a duel and thus leave the stage with a claw, but to die with a bullet his cruel besides would be breaking the law. Yet one way remains. To the river I'll fly from the godeans of care. But drown? Oh, the thought makes me shiver. A terrible death I declare. Ah, no. I'll once more see my kitty and parry her cruel disdain. Beseach her to take me in pity and never dismiss again. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Dismissed by George Polk Morris, read for LibriVox.org by Phil Shempf. I suppose she was right in rejecting my suit, but why did she kick me downstairs? Alex discarded. The wing of my spirit is broken. My day-star of hope has declined. For a month not a word have I spoken. That's either polite or refined. My mind's like the sky in bad weather when mist clouds around us are curled. And viewing myself all together I'm the various wretch in the world. I wander about like a vagrant. I spent half my time in the street. My conducts improper and flagrant, for I quarrel with all that I meet. My dress too is wholly neglected. My hat I pulled over my brow, and I look like a fellow suspected of wishing to kick up a row. In vain I've endeavored to borrow from friends some material aid. For my landlady views me with sorrow when she thinks of the bill that's unpaid. Abroad my acquaintances flout me. The ladies cry, I just look there. And little boys cluster about me in sensible citizen stare. One says he's a victim to Cupid. Another is conducts too bad. A third he is awfully stupid. A fourth he is perfectly mad. And then I am watched like a bandit. Mankind with me all are at strife. By heaven no longer I'll stand it, but quick put an end to my life. I've thought of the means, yet I shudder at dagger or ratsbane or rope, at drawing with lancet my blood, or at razor without any soap. Suppose I should fall in a duel, and thus leave the stage with a claw, but to die with a bullet is cruel, besides to it be breaking the law. Yet one way remains to the river. I'll fly from the goading's of care. But drown, oh, the thought makes me shiver. A terrible death I declare. Ah, no. I'll once more see my kitty and parry her cruel disdain, meseacher to take me in pity, and never dismiss me again. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.