A BURLINGTON HOUSE BALLAD.
(With Apologies to Our Lordly Laureate).
In her ear he whispers sadly,
"I've a grief upon my soul,
And I want you very badly
Just to take a little stroll."
She replies, in accents fainter,
"Anywhere, my love, with thee."
He is but a budding painter,
And his fair fiancée she.
To her chamber straight she scurries,
Lest delay should bring reproof,
Pops her bonnet on and hurries
With him from her father's roof.
So she goes, by him attended,
Hears him absently converse,
As with spirits all unmended
He controls his steps to hers.
Faring thus, she wonders greatly,
Till a gateway she discerns
With armorial bearings stately,
And beneath the gate she turns.
Sees a building most majestic
In a simple maiden's eye;
Pays he then a smug domestic,
And the turnstile clicks them by.
All around are paint and glitter
High and low upon the wall,
While he treads with feelings bitter,
Leading on from hall to hall.
And as now she freely utters
Rapture it were vain to hide,
Fiercely turns he round and mutters,
"There's my picture—it is 'skyed!'"
Funny Folks, May, 1884.
THE MAY QUEEN OF 1879,
AS SHE MIGHT HAVE BEEN.
WELL, you waked and call'd me early on the first, my mother dear,
As though't had been the jolliest time of all the glad new year,
For as you were aware, mother, in spite the wretched day,
I had to be Queen o' the May, mother, I had to be Queen o' the May.
You did your best for me, mother, I must say that of you;
You had my waterproof prepared, and my goloshes too;
You lent me your own muff, mother, my chilblains were so sore,
And made dear Robin bring the cover'd cart close to our door.
And yet the May-day games, mother, were not a great success;
And I, for I was Queen, alack!—got in the greatest mess;
The mud was over all our boots—it hail'd, too, as it chanced,
And I fell in a puddle, mother, while I with Robin danced.
(Five verses omitted).
"So, on the whole, I cannot say I'm glad—no more can you,
You call'd me early on the first, though then I begg'd you to;
In truth, could I have known, it would have been so cold and wet,
I'd have told the lads and lasses, mother, another Queen to get.
"But, there, it is too late to fret—the thing is over now,
But not again will your poor child thus play the fool, I vow;
Another year, if spring is late, I'll stay in bed all day,
Rather than get up early, mother, and be the Queen o' the May."
Truth, May 22, 1879.
YOU ask me why, tho' ill at ease,
Within this region I subsist,
Whose spirits falter in the mist,
And languish for the purple seas?
* * * *
TENNYSON.