T forty-three, in broken health,
The heel of Fate has crushed my pride;
No joy I find in work or wealth—
There’s nothing left but suicide.
The wind blows ever from the east;
It’s madness now my trike to ride;
My pony’s lame, poor little beast—
There’s nothing left but suicide.
My hair is thin, my face is fat,
My waist is spreading far and wide;
Last week I lost my favourite cat—
There’s nothing left but suicide.
I am not starred on any bills,
The critics all my work deride;
I’m sick of taking draughts and pills—
There’s nothing left but suicide.
I am too sad to make a joke,
The girl I love’s another’s bride;
The doctors will not let me smoke—
There’s nothing left but suicide.
My house, I find, is built on clay,
In vain to let it I have tried;
The income tax is due to-day—
There’s nothing left but suicide.
What’s this?—a box of chocolates,
With pale pink ribbon neatly tied?
The “sweets of life” again, O Fates,
I taste, and laugh at suicide.
Ye Bars and Gates.
E bars and gates o’ Bloomsbury,
How can ye stand so silent there?
How can ye, knowing ye are doomed,
From some sma’ signs o’ grief forbear?
He’ll break his heart, will Bedford’s duke,
Whose grandeur County Councils spurn,
As he bemoans his feudal rights—
Departed never to return.