Then like a volcano puffing,
Smoked he out his pipe;
Sighed and supped on ducks and stuffing,
Ham and kraut and tripe;
Went to bed, and, in the morning,
Waited as before,
Still his eyes in anguish turning
To the baker’s door;
Till, with apron white and mealy,
Came the lovely dame,
Counting out the loaves so freely,
Selling of the same.
So one day—the fact’s amazing!—
On his post he died!
And they found the body gazing
At the baker’s bride.
Night and Morning.
[not by sir e. bulwer lytton.]
“Thy coffee, Tom, ’s untasted,
And thy egg is very cold;
Thy cheeks are wan and wasted,
Not rosy as of old.
My boy, what has come o’er ye?
You surely are not well!
Try some of that ham before ye,
And then, Tom, ring the bell!”
“I cannot eat, my mother,
My tongue is parched and bound,
And my head, somehow or other,
Is swimming round and round.
In my eyes there is a fulness,
And my pulse is beating quick;
On my brain is a weight of dulness:
Oh, mother, I am sick!”
“These long, long nights of watching
Are killing you outright;
The evening dews are catching,
And you’re out every night.
Why does that horrid grumbler,
Old Inkpen, work you so?”
(TOM—lene susurrans)