Sidebilder
PDF
ePub

The very horses knew his weight
When he was in the rear,

And wished his box a Christmas-box
To come but once a year.

Alas! against the shafts of love
What armour can prevail?
Soon Cupid sent an arrow through
His scarlet coat of mail.

The barmaid of the Crown he loved,
From whom he never ranged,
For tho' he changed his horses there,
His love he never changed.

He thought her fairest of all fares,
So fondly love prefers;

And often, among twelve outsides,
Deemed no outside like hers.

One day as she was sitting down
Beside the porter-pump-
He came, and knelt with all his fat,
And made an offer plump.

Said she, my taste will never learn

To like so huge a man,

So I must beg you will come here

As little as you can.

But still he stoutly urged his suit,

With vows, and sighs, and tears, Yet could not pierce her heart, altho He drove the Dart for years.

In vain he wooed, in vain he sued;
The maid was cold and proud,
And sent him off to Coventry,
While on his way to Stroud.

He fretted all the way to Stroud,
And thence all back to town;

The course of love was never smooth,
So his went up and down.

At last her coldness made him pine
To merely bones and skin;

But still he loved like one resolved
To love through thick and thin.

Oh, Mary, view my wasted back,
And see my dwindled calf;
Tho' I have never had a wife,
I've lost my better half.

Alas, in vain he still assail'd

Her heart withstood the dint; Though he had carried sixteen stone He could not move a flint.

Worn out, at last he made a vow
To break his being's link;

For he was so reduced in size
At nothing he could shrink.

Now some will talk in water's praise
And waste a deal of breath,

But John, tho' he drank nothing else—
He drank himself to death.

The cruel maid that caused his love,
Found out the fatal close,

For, looking in the butt, she saw
The butt-end of his woes.

Some say his spirit haunts the Crown,

But that is only talk

For after riding all his life,

His ghost objects to walk.

[blocks in formation]

Miss Bell I hear has got a dear

Exactly to her mind,

By sitting at the window pane
Without a bit of blind;

But I go in the balcony,

Which she has never done,

Yet arts that thrive at Number Five

Don't take at Number One!

'Tis hard with plenty in the street,

And plenty passing by,—

There's nice young men at Number Ten,

But only rather shy;

And Mrs. Smith across the way

Has got a grown-up son,

But la! he hardly seems to know

There is a Number One!

There's Mr. Wick at Number Nine,

But he's intent on pelf,

And though he's pious, will not love
His neighbour as himself.

At Number Seven there was a sale

The goods had quite a run!
And here I've got my single lot
On hand at Number One!

My mother often sits at work
And talks of props and stays,
And what a comfort I shall be
In her declining days.

The very maids about the house

Have set me down a nun;

The sweethearts all belong to them

That call at Number One!

Once only when the flue took fire,

One Friday afternoon,

Young Mr. Long came kindly in
And told me not to swoon:
Why can't he come again without
The Phoenix and the Sun!
We cannot always have a flue
On fire at Number One!

I am not old! I am not plain!
Nor awkward in my gait-
I am not crooked, like the bride
That went from Number Eight:
I'm sure white satin made her look

As brown as any bun— )

But even beauty has no chance,

I think, at Number One!

At Number Six they say Miss Rose

Has slain a score of hearts,

And Cupid, for her sake, has been

Quite prodigal of darts.

The Imp they show with bended bow,
I wish he had a gun!

[ocr errors]

But if he had, he'd never deign
To shoot with Number One.

It's very hard, and so it is,
To live in such a row!

And here's a ballad singer come

To aggravate my woe.

Oh take away your foolish song

And tones enough to stun

There is "Nae luck about the house,"

I know, at Number One!

[

THE DROWNING DUCKS.

MONGST the sights that Mrs. Bond

Enjoyed, yet grieved at more than othersWere little ducklings in the pond,

Swimming about beside their mothers

Small things like living water lilies,
But yellow as the daffo-dillies.

"It's very hard," she used to moan,
"That other people have their ducklings
To grace their waters-mine alone
Have never any pretty chucklings."
For why-each little yellow navy
Went down-all downy-to old Davy!

She had a lake-a pond I mean—

It's wave was rather thick than pearly—
She had two ducks, their napes were green—
She had a drake, his tail was curly,-
Yet spite of drake, and ducks, and pond,
No little ducks had Mrs. Bond!

The birds were both the best of mothers—
The nests had eggs-the eggs had luck—
The infant D.'s came forth like others-
But there, alas! the matter stuck!
They might as well have all died addle,
As die when they began to paddle!

« ForrigeFortsett »