As plump and pudgy as a snipe—
Well worth her weight in gold,
Of honest, clean, conspicuous type,
And just the size to hold!
With such a volume for my wife,
How should I keep and con?
How like a dream should speed my life
Unto its colophon!
Her frontispiece should be more fair
Than any colored plate;
Blooming with health she would not care
To extra-illustrate.
And in her pages there should be
A wealth of prose and verse,
With now and then a jeu d'esprit—
But nothing ever worse!
Prose for me when I wished for prose,
Verse, when to verse inclined—
Forever bringing sweet repose
To body, heart, and mind.
Oh, I should bind this priceless prize
In bindings full and fine,
And keep her where no human eyes
Should see her charms, but mine!
With such a fair unique as this,
What happiness abounds!
Who—who could paint my rapturous bliss,
My joy unknown to Lowndes!
EZRA J. M'MANUS TO A SOUBRETTE.
'Tis years, soubrette, since last we met,
And yet, ah yet, how swift and tender
My thoughts go back in Time's dull track
To you, sweet pink of female gender!
I shall not say—though others may—
That time all human joy enhances;
But the same old thrill comes to me still
With memories of your songs and dances.
Soubrettish ways these latter days
Invite my praise, but never get it;
I still am true to yours and you—
My record's made—I'll not upset it!
The pranks they play, the things they say—
I'd blush to put the like on paper;
And I'll avow they don't know how
To dance, so awkwardly they caper!