No Bleeding Spectre haunts the house,
No shape,— but owl or bat,
Come flitting after moth or mouse,-
There's no Romance in that !

I have not any grief profound,
Or secrets to confess,
My story would not fetch a pound
For A. K. Newman's press;
Instead of looking thin and pale,
I’m growing red and fat,
As if I lived on beef and ale
There's no Romance in that!

It's very hard, by land or sea
Some strange event I court,
But nothing ever comes to me
That's worth a pen’s report:
It really made my temper chafe,
Each coast that I was at,
I vowed, and railed, and came home safe,-
There's no Romance in that!

The only time I had a chance
At Brighton one fine day,
My chestnut mare began to prance,
Took fright, and ran away ;
Alas! no Captain of the Tenth
To stop my steed came pat;
A Butcher caught the rein at length, —
There's no Romance in that!

Love — even love — goes smoothly on
A railway sort of track —
No flinty sire, no jealous Don !
No hearts upon the rack ;
No Polydore, no Theodore —
His ugly name is Mat,
Plain Matthew Pratt and nothing more
There's no Romance in that !

He is not dark, he is not tall,
His forehead's rather low,
He is not pensive — not at all,
But smiles his teeth to show;
He comes from Wales and yet in size.
Is really but a sprat ;
With sandy hair and grayish eyes —
There's no Romance in that !

He wears no plumes or Spanish cloaks,
Or long-sword hanging down ;
He dresses much like other folks,
And commonly in brown;
His collar he will not discard,
Or give up his cravat,
Lord Byron-like — he's not a Bard -
There's no Romance in that!

He's rather bald, his sight is weak,
He's deaf in either drum;
Without a lisp he cannot speak,
VOL. III. 11

But then he's worth a plum.
He talks of stocks and three per cents.
By way of private chat,
Of Spanish Bonds, and shares, and rents-
There's no Romance in that !

I sing — no matter what I sing,
Di Tanti — or Crudel,
Tom Bowling, or God save the King,
Di piacer — All’s well ;
He knows no more about a voice
For singing than a gnat -
And as to Music “has no choice” –
There's no Romance in that!

Of light guitar I cannot boast,
He never serenades ;
He writes, and sends it by the post,
He doesn't bribe the maids :
No stealth, no hempen ladder — no!
He comes with loud rat-tat,
That startles half of Bedford Row -
There's no Romance in that !

He comes at nine in time to choose
His coffee — just two cups,
And talks with Pa about the news,
Repeats debates, and sups.
John helps him with his coat aright,
And Jenkins hands his hat;

My lover bows, and says good night -
There's no Romance in that!

I've long had Pa's and Ma’s consent,
My Aunt she quite approves,
My Brother wishes joy from Kent,
None try to thwart our loves ;
On Tuesday reverend Mr. Mace
Will make me Mrs. Pratt,
Of Number Twenty, Sussex Place -
There's no Romance in that!


! TO WATERLOO, with sad ado,

And many a sigh and groan, Amongst the dead, came Patty Head,

To look for Peter Stone.

“O prithee tell, good sentinel,

If I shall find him here?
I'm come to weep upon his corse,

My Ninety-Second dear!

“ Into our town a sergeant came

With ribbons all so fine,
A-flaunting in his cap — alas !

His bow enlisted mine!

“ They taught him how to turn his toes,

And stand as stiff as starch ;
I thought that it was love and May,

But it was love and March !

“ A sorry March indeed to leave

The friends he might have kep, No March of Intellect it was,

But quite a foolish step.

“O prithee tell, good sentinel,

If hereabout he lies ?
I want a corpse with reddish hair,

And very sweet blue eyes.”

Her sorrow on the sentinel

Appeared to deeply strike :“ Walk in,” he said, “ among the dead,

And pick out which you like.”

And soon she picked out Peter Stone,

Half turned into a corse ;
A cannon was his bolster, and

His mattress was a horse.

“O Peter Stone, O Peter Stone,

Lord, here has been a skrimmage ! What have they done to your poor breast

That used to hold my image ?

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