TO MRS. H.M. STANLEY.
The merry bells do naught but ring,
The streets are gay with flag and pennant,
The birds more sweetly seem to sing—
A Heart to Let has found a TENNANT!
No more will HENRY MORTON roam,
Nor from your charms away for long go,
But, honeymooning here at home,
Forget he ever saw the Congo!
To Oxford 'twas your husband went—
The stately home of Don and Proctor—
Where, 'mid the deafening cheers that rent
The air, he straight became a Doctor.
As one whose valour none can shake,
We've sung him in a thousand ditties,
And freedoms too we've made him take
Of goodness knows how many cities!
Yet while to honour and to praise
With one another we've been vying,
Has he not told us for the days
Of rest to come he ne'er ceased sighing?
And when, with pomp of high degree,
Your marriage vows and troth you plighted,
Why, everyone was glad to see
Art and Adventure thus united!
"To those about to Marry.—Don't!"
So Mr. Punch did once advise us.
Spread the advice? I'm sure you won't.
A course which hardly need surprise us.
O lovely wife of one we think
Above all others brave and manly,
We clink our glasses as we drink
Long life and health to Mrs. STANLEY!