Handing the wings of cold fowls and trembling blancmanges and jellies.
More can I not write at present. I’ve striven to laugh on this subject,
But ’neath my placid external beats sadly a heart crushed and blighted!
Shall I confess to ye the reason? Know then, that at this said picnic,
Fired by the fumes of champagne and strong deleterious potions,
Placed I my fortune and hand at the feet of Emily Robins!
Know then, that losing my balance I sprawled on the greensward before her,
And, ere the evening was o’er, got outrageously thrashed by her brother!
Note by the Editor.—In transcribing this poem from my friend’s MS., I feel it my duty to state that his touching description of his love was not without foundation. The “knock-down blow” he received did not entirely floor him; he sought to see the lady again, and, on being repulsed, commenced a very pretty little poem, beginning—
“When he who adores thee has left but the name