THE RINK OF SIGHS.
One more unfortunate
Knocked out of breath—
"Rashly importunate,"
Jealousy saith.
Lift her up tenderly—
Mind her back hair;
Fashioned so slenderly—
Fetch her a chair.
Burst are her garments,
Hanging in cerements,
While buttons constantly
Fall from her clothing.
Take her up instantly
Loving, not loathing;
Scornfully touch her not—
Think of the bump she got,
All through those wheels of hers
Which she used killingly;
And those high heels of hers—
Sat she unwillingly.
She in a mess is
All things betoken,
And spoilt her gay dress is,
While wonderment guesses:
"Are the bones broken?"
"Who is her milliner?"
"Has she a glover?—
P'raps a two-shilliner;"
"Or has she a dearer one
Still?" P'raps a nearer one—
Gifts from her lover!
Alas, for the rarity
Of Christian charity,
There isn't one
Who's a bit pitiful,
While that sad, witty fool,
Woffles, makes fun.
She, as she shivers
And mournfully quivers,
Sits bolt upright.
From window to casement,
From roof unto basement
She stares with amazement,
Mournful of plight.
Never this history
Tell—'tis a mystery.
How her wheels twirled.
Anywhere, anywhere,
Facing the world;
Whirled her skates boldly,
No matter how coldly
Regarded by man.
Oh, but the Rink of it—
Picture it—think of it,
When it began;
Rave at it, wink at it,
Now if you can.
Take her up tenderly—
Mind her back hair;
Fashioned so slenderly—
Fetch her a chair.
Can't she sit down on it?
Is she in pain?
True. She doth frown on it—
"Shan't rink again!"
Funny Folks, February 26, 1876.