Sidebilder
PDF
ePub

JOHN DAY.

A PATHETIC BALLAD.

" A Day after the Fair.” – OLD PROVERB.

John Day he was the biggest man

Of all the coachman-kind, With back too broad to be conceived

By any narrow mind.

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 avail ?
Soon Cupid sent an arrow through

His scarlet coat of mail.

The bar-maid 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.

O 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 assailed,

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.

NUMBER ONE.

VERSIFIED FROM THE PROSE OF A YOUNG

LADY.

It's very hard !- and so it is,
To live in such a row, —
And witness this that every Miss
But me, has got a Beau. —
For Love goes calling up and down,
But here he seems to shun;
I'm sure he has been asked enough
To call at Number One!

I'm sick of all the double knocks
That come to Number Four! -
At Number Three, I often see
A lover at the door ; -
And one in blue, at Number Two,
Calls daily like a dun, -
It 's very hard they come so near
And not to Number One!

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 : -

« ForrigeFortsett »