MARY JONES.
(By her Husband.)
As I'm daily jolted down
On the early bus to town,
Through the yellow fog and brown,
O'er the stones,
I inhale the tawny air,
And I deem it ether rare,
For my soul is full of fair
Mary Jones.
Fellow-passengers are fain
To abuse the wind and rain,
And the weather, they complain,
Chills their bones:
But I laugh at snow and sleet
As I bump upon my seat,
For I'm thinking of my sweet
Mary Jones.
With a lightsome heart and gay
To the Bank I wend my way.
Where I calculate all day
Debts and loans;
Though anon my fancies flee
From the rows of £ s. d.,
And they wander off to thee,
Mary Jones.
And I cannot blame their taste,
Though a little time they waste
For my Mary would have graced
Monarchs' thrones.
What are pounds and pence to her?—
No. I cannot but concur
With their choice when they prefer
Mary Jones.
Then I hurry home to tea,
And I pass an A. B. C.,
Where I purchase two or three
Cakes and scones:
For I love the smiles that rise
In your laughing hazel eyes
When I offer you my prize,
Mary Jones.
And when tea is cleared away,
And you kindle me my clay,
As I listen to your gay
Dulcet tones,
Then I sometimes wonder who
In the world's the best to do?—
'Gad, it's either I or you,
Mary Jones!
