THE LAY OF THE LOVELORN.
Comrades, you may pass the rosy. With permission of
the chair,
I shall leave you for a little, for I'd like to take the air.
Whether 'twas the sauce at dinner, or that glass of ginger-
beer,
Or these strong cheroots, I know not, but I feel a little queer.
Let me go. Nay, Chuckster, blow me, 'pon my soul, this
is too bad!
When you want me, ask the waiter; he knows where I'm
to be had.
Whew! This is a great relief now! Let me but undo my
stock;
Resting here beneath the porch, my nerves will steady
like a rock.
In my ears I hear the singing of a lot of favourite tunes—
Bless my heart, how very odd! Why, surely there's a
brace of moons!
See! the stars! how bright they twinkle, winking with a
frosty glare,
Like my faithless cousin Amy when she drove me to
despair.
Oh, my cousin, spider-hearted! Oh, my Amy! No, con-
found it!
I must wear the mournful willow,—all around my hat
I've bound it.
Falser than the bank of fancy, frailer than a shilling glove,
Puppet to a father's anger, minion to a nabob's love!
Is it well to wish thee happy? Having known me, could
you ever
Stoop to marry half a heart, and little more than half a
liver?
Happy! Damme! Thou shalt lower to his level day by
day,
Changing from the best of china to the commonest of
clay.
As the husband is, the wife is,—he is stomach-plagued
and old;
And his curry soups will make thy cheek the colour of
his gold.
When his feeble love is sated, he will hold thee surely
then
Something lower than his hookah,—something less than
his cayenne.
What is this? His eyes are pinky. Was't the claret?
Oh, no, no,—
Bless your soul! it was the salmon,—salmon always makes
him so.
Take him to thy dainty chamber—sooth him with thy
lightest fancies;
He will understand thee, won't he?—pay thee with a
lover's glances?
Louder than the loudest trumpet, harsh as harshest
ophicleide,
Nasal respirations answer the endearments of his bride.
Sweet response, delightful music! Gaze upon thy noble
charge,
Till the spirit fill thy bosom that inspired the meek
Laffarge.
Better thou wert dead before me,—better, better that I
stood,
Looking on thy murdered body, like the injured Daniel
Good!
Better thou and I were lying, cold and timber-stiff and
dead,
With a pan of burning charcoal underneath our nuptial
bed!
Cursed be the Bank of England's notes, that tempt the
soul to sin!
Cursed be the want of acres,—doubly cursed the want of tin!
Cursed be the marriage-contract, that enslaved thy soul
to greed!
Cursed be the sallow lawyer, that prepared and drew the
deed!
Cursed be his foul apprentice, who the loathsome fees did
earn!
Cursed be the clerk and parson,—cursed be the whole
concern!
Oh, 'tis well that I should bluster,—much I'm like to
make of that;
Better comfort have I found in singing "All Around my
Hat."
But that song, so wildly plaintive, palls upon my British
ears.
'Twill not do to pine for ever,—I am getting up in
years.
Can't I turn the honest penny, scribbling for the weekly
press,
And in writing Sunday libels drown my private wretched-
ness?
Oh, to feel the wild pulsation that in manhood's dawn I
knew,
When my days were all before me, and my years were
twenty-two!
When I smoked my independent pipe along the Quadrant
wide,
With the many larks of London flaring up on every side;
When I went the pace so wildly, caring little what might
come;
Coffee-milling care and sorrow, with a nose-adapted thumb;
Felt the exquisite enjoyment, tossing nightly off, oh
heavens!
Brandy at the Cider Cellars, kidneys smoking-hot at
Evans'!
Or in the Adelphi sitting, half in rapture, half in tears,
Saw the glorious melodrama conjure up the shades of
years!
Saw Jack Sheppard, noble stripling, act his wondrous feats
again,
Snapping Newgate's bars of iron, like an infant's daisy
chain.
Might was right, and all the terrors, which had held the
world in awe,
Were despised, and prigging prospered, spite of Laurie,
spite of law.
In such scenes as these I triumphed, ere my passion's
edge was rusted,
And my cousin's cold refusal left me very much dis-
gusted!
Since, my heart is sere and withered, and I do not care a
curse,
Whether worse shall be the better, or the better be the
worse.
Hark! my merry comrades call me, bawling for another
jorum;
They would mock me in derision, should I thus appear
before 'em.
Womankind no more shall vex me, such at least as go
arrayed.
In the most expensive satins and the newest silk brocade.
I'll to Afric, lion-haunted, where the giant forest yields
Rarer robes and finer tissue than are sold at Spital-
fields.
Or to burst all chains of habit, flinging habit's self
aside,
I shall walk the tangled jungle in mankind's primeval
pride;
Feeding on the luscious berries and the rich cassava root,
Lots of dates and lots of guavas, clusters of forbidden
fruit.
Never comes the trader thither, never o'er the purple
main
Sounds the oath of British commerce, or the accents of
Cockaigne.
There, methinks, would be enjoyment, where no envious
rule prevents;
Sink the steamboats! cuss the railways! rot, O rot the
Three per Cents!
There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have space
to breathe, my cousin!
I will wed some savage woman—nay, I'll wed at least a
dozen.
There I'll rear my young mulattoes, as no Bond Street
brats are reared:
They shall dive for alligators, catch the mid goats by the
beard—
Whistle to the cockatoos, and mock the hairy-faced
baboon,
Worship mighty Mumbo Jumbo in the Mountains of the
Moon.
I myself, in far Timbuctoo, leopard's blood will daily
quaff,
Ride a tiger-hunting, mounted on a thorough-bred giraffe.
Fiercely shall I shout the war-whoop, as some sullen
stream he crosses,
Startling from their noonday slumbers iron-bound rhino-
ceroses.
Fool! again the dream, the fancy! But I know my words
are mad,
For I hold the grey barbarian lower than the Christian
cad.
I the swell—the city dandy! I to seek such horrid
places,—
I to haunt with squalid negroes, blubber-lips, and monkey-
faces!
I to wed with Coromantees! I, who managed—very
near—
To secure theheart and fortune of the widow Shilli-
beer!
Stuff and nonsense! let me never fling a single chance
away;
Maids ere now, I know, have loved me, and another
maiden may.
'Morning post' ('The Times' won't trust me)
help me, as I know you can;
I will pen an advertisement,—that's a never-
failing plan.
[Original Size]
"Wanted—By a bard, in wedlock, some young
interesting woman:
Looks are not so much an object, if the shiners
be forthcoming!
"Hymen's chains the advertiser vows shall be
but silken fetters;
Please address to A. T., Chelsea. N.B.—You
must pay the letters."
That's the sort of thing to do it. Now I'll go
and taste the balmy,—
Rest thee with thy yellow nabob, spider-hearted
Cousin Amy!
