MINOR MISERIES.

Dear Lady, in your dining-room

I sat, a melancholy slave.

Your smiles could hardly chase my gloom;

While others jested, I was grave.

And still you saw me sit and sit—

"Enough of this," you said, "come, come,

Be cheerful." While I merely bit

A foolish, irresponsive thumb,

And found no comfort in the act,

And cursed myself, the clumsy Goth,

As void of fingers as of tact,

Who spilt the mustard on the cloth!

That was the cause of all my woe—

Good lack, I blame my thumbs in vain;

Still on the cloth's expanded snow

I seem to see that yellow stain.

And still you sit and speak me fair,

And still your Butler grimly smiles,

The while I paint in mustard there

A sketch-map of the British Isles.

I think it had repaid my guilt

Had you flashed fire like Ashtaroth,

And scorched the clumsy wretch who spilt

That flood of mustard on your cloth.

Beef, pudding, cherry-tart, and cream,

What more could mortal man desire?

I munched them idly in a dream,

My head sang like a village choir.

I fumbled with the silver pot

From which that tawny torrent ran;

I heard you say it mattered not,

To cheer a miserable man.

So here I thank you; may I be

Extinct as is the Behemoth

Rather than spill by Fate's decree

Once more the mustard on your cloth.