THE ARCHITECT TO HIS WIFE.
I poetise seldom or never,
As a rule I am not such an ass;
I handle a metre scarce ever,
Unless it's connected with gas.
But once I was tempted to stray, dear,
In the realms of the Muses above,
And in somewhat professional way, dear,
To sing the delights of my love.
I thought of you, sweet my Drusilla,
As the daintiest lot in the land,
The prettiest fairy-like villa
That ever an architect planned.
You offered attractions unnumbered,
Your aspect was sunny and bright,
And my fancies ran wild, when I slumbered,
Depicting the charms of your site.
I think I shall never forget, love,
How I called with an order to view;
You were empty, and still "To be Let," love,
And I was untenanted too.
I stocked you; I saw that we stood, love,
On mutually suitable spots,
And I swore I would do what I could, love,
To try to unite the two lots.
I cautiously mooted the question,
And great was my rapture to find
That my timidly-ventured suggestion
Was not quite averse to your mind.
I therefore grew bold and took heart, love,
The business was promptly despatched,
We no longer stood coldly apart, love,
For lo, we were closely attached.
'Tis long since this happened, and now, love,
Folk see us so happily matched,
They are ready to promise and vow, love,
We never were semi-detached.
Two beings were never so blended,
They say we could never be twain—
Well, so let it be, till life's ended,
And one let us ever remain!
