The very horses knew his weight And wished his box a Christmas-box Alas! against the shafts of love The barmaid of the Crown he loved, He thought her fairest of all fares, And often, among twelve outsides, One day as she was sitting down 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; He fretted all the way to Stroud, The course of love was never smooth, At last her coldness made him pine But still he loved like one resolved Oh, Mary, view my wasted back, 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 For he was so reduced in size Now some will talk in water's praise But John, tho' he drank nothing else— The cruel maid that caused his love, For, looking in the butt, she saw Some say his spirit haunts the Crown, But that is only talk For after riding all his life, His ghost objects to walk. Miss Bell I hear has got a dear Exactly to her mind, By sitting at the window pane 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 At Number Seven there was a sale The goods had quite a run! My mother often sits at work 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 I am not old! I am not plain! 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, But if he had, he'd never deign It's very hard, and so it is, 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, "It's very hard," she used to moan, She had a lake-a pond I mean— It's wave was rather thick than pearly— The birds were both the best of mothers— |