ANOTHER'S!
(A Once Rejected Address.)
Yes! Thou must be another's. Oh,
Such anguish stands alone!
I'd always fancied thou wert so
Peculiarly mine own;
No welcome doubt my soul can free;
A convict may not choose—
Yet, since another's thou must be,
Most kindly tell me whose?
Is it the Lord of Shilling Thrills
Who penned The Black that Mails—
That martial man who from the hills
Excogitates his tales?
Is it ubiquitous A. LANG?
Nay, shrink not but explain
To which of all the writing gang
Dost properly pertain?
Perchance to some provincial churl,
Who blushes quite unseen?
Perchance to some ambitious Earl
Or Stockbroker, I ween?
Such things have frequently occurred,
And gems like thee have crowned
The titular and moneyed herd,
And made them nigh renowned.
I know not, this alone is clear,
Thou wert my sole delight;
I pored on thee by sunshine, dear,
I dreamed of thee at night.
Thou wert so good—too splendid for
The common critic's praise—
And I was thy proprietor—
And all the world must gaze!
But Punch, that autocrat, decrees
That thou another's art:
I cannot choose but bow my knees
And lacerate my heart.
Thou must be someone's else, alack!
The truth remains confessed—
For Mr. P. hath sent thee back,
My cherished little Jest.
FROM A FLY-LEAF.—"Buzziness first, pleasure after," as the bluebottle said when, after circling three times about the breakfast-table, he alighted on a lump of sugar.