THE SONG OF THE POST.
WITH "Bluchers" cobbled and worn,
With post-bag heavy alway,
A postman tramped on his twentieth round,
On good St. Valentine's day.
Rat-tat! rat! tat!
At every knocker almost,
Each time, in a voice that was somewhat flat,
He sang the "Song of the Post!"
Tramp! tramp! tramp!
When the sweep is up the flue;
And tramp! tramp! tramp!
Till the supper beer is due.
It's oh! to be a slave,
Along with the barbarous Turk,
Where Scudamore can verse outpour
For Britons, besides his work!
Trudge! trudge! trudge!
Till I'm trodden down at heel;
Trudge! trudge! trudge!
Till I'm faint for want of a meal.
Bell, and knocker, and box,
Box, and knocker, and bell;
Till over the letters I all but nod,
And drop them in a spell.
Oh, girls with lovers fond!
Oh, men who want to get wives!
It's not a mere custom you're keeping up;
You're wearing out postmen's lives!
If you must send Valentines,
Don't post them by tens and twelves;
Or, if you do, I would pray of you
To deliver them yourselves!
But why do I pray of you,
Whose hearts so hard must be,
Since your scented rhymes you'll not post betimes,
In spite of Lord M—'s decree?
In spite of Lord M—'s decree,
In your tardy ways you keep;
Oh, crime! that boots should be so dear,
And Valentines so cheap!
* * * *
Tramp! tramp! tramp!
Through street, and terrace, and square.
Rap! rap! rap!
Valentines everywhere!
Maid, and master, and miss,
Miss, and master, and maid;
There are some for them all, as they come at the call
Of the knocker, so long delayed.
* * * *
There's none too poor or base
A Valentine to send—
A halfpenny buys an ugly one
That will serve to spite a friend.
They are sent by the high and the low—
By the noble, and many a scamp,
Who has to steal the envelope,
And cadge for the penny stamp!
* * * *
Oh! could I but finish my task!
That I for my feet might care,
And my neck that's gall'd by the heavy weight,
I've had this day to bear.
Oh! but for one short hour,
To feel as I used to feel,
Before I'd developed such terrible corns,
Or was trodden so down at heel.
* * * *
With "Bluchers" cobbled and worn,
With post-bag heavy alway,
A postman tramped on his twentieth round,
On good St. Valentine's day.
Rat-tat! tat! tat!
At every knocker almost;
And still, in a voice that was somewhat flat,
(Many wondered whate'er he was at),
He sang the "Song of the Post!"
(Fourteen verses in all).
Truth, February 8, 1877.