TO MY UMBRELLA.
'Twere hard indeed to try to get
A theme without some poem on it—
A vilanelle, a triolet,
An ode, an epic, or a sonnet.
CASTARA'S charms were sung of old,
Both SWIFT and SIDNEY, wrote to STELLA,
But mine it is to first unfold
The praise of my beloved Umbrella.
You are not difficult to please,
Although no doubt a trifle "knobby;"
Whilst I'm reclining at mine ease,
I leave you standing in the lobby.
I ever treat you thus, and yet
I haven't got a friend who's firmer;
In point of fact, you even let
Me shut you up without a murmur.
Now some seek solace sweet in smoke,
And make a pipe their AMARYLLIS;
So think not that I do but joke
In calling you my darling PHYLLIS.
And though the gossips never spare
For ill-report to seek a handle,
The (indiarubber) ring you wear
Prevents the very thought of scandal.
"Fair weather, friend," we've often heard
Used as a term to throw discredit,
Though clearly it were quite absurd
If speaking of yourself one said it.
When skies are blue (a thing that's rare)
I in the coolest way forsake you,
But when the Forecast tells me "Fair,"
Or "Settled Sunshine," then I take you.
I like to think of one sweet day
When cats and dogs it kept on raining,
(Why "cats and dogs," it's right to say,
Who will oblige me by explaining?)
When someone, who had golden hair,
And I were walking out together,
And underneath your sheltering care,
Were happy spite of wind and weather.
One day I asked a friend to dine,
The friend I most completely trusted.
We sat and chatted o'er the wine,
He liked the port—my fine old crusted.
At length we said "Good-night." He went
But not alone. For to my sorrow
My mind with jealousy was rent,
To find you missing on the morrow.
You had eloped! Yet all the same
I felt quite sure you were his victim,
When back a sorry wreck you came,
I very nearly went and kicked him!
Did Love take wings, and fly away?
Grew my affection less? No, never!
To tell the truth, I'm bound to say
I fondly loved you more than ever!
With him—the man who was my friend—
It's pretty clear you got on badly;
Your ribs, somehow, seem prone to bend,
Your silken dress seems wearing sadly.
It's very hard, I know, to part,
And sentimental feelings smother,
But even though it break my heart,
I'm going, next week, to get another.
EPITAPH ON A PLATE OF VENISON (a suggestion, at the service of those who collect menu cards).—"Though lost to sight, to memory deer!"