As the husband is, the wife is,—he is stomach-plagued
and old;
And his curry soups will make thy cheek the colour of
his gold.
When his feeble love is sated, he will hold thee surely
then
Something lower than his hookah,—something less than
his cayenne.
What is this? His eyes are pinky. Was't the claret?
Oh, no, no,—
Bless your soul! it was the salmon,—salmon always makes
him so.
Take him to thy dainty chamber—sooth him with thy
lightest fancies;
He will understand thee, won't he?—pay thee with a
lover's glances?
Louder than the loudest trumpet, harsh as harshest
ophicleide,
Nasal respirations answer the endearments of his bride.
Sweet response, delightful music! Gaze upon thy noble
charge,
Till the spirit fill thy bosom that inspired the meek
Laffarge.
Better thou wert dead before me,—better, better that I
stood,
Looking on thy murdered body, like the injured Daniel
Good!
Better thou and I were lying, cold and timber-stiff and
dead,
With a pan of burning charcoal underneath our nuptial
bed!
Cursed be the Bank of England's notes, that tempt the
soul to sin!
Cursed be the want of acres,—doubly cursed the want of tin!
Cursed be the marriage-contract, that enslaved thy soul
to greed!
Cursed be the sallow lawyer, that prepared and drew the
deed!
Cursed be his foul apprentice, who the loathsome fees did
earn!
Cursed be the clerk and parson,—cursed be the whole
concern!
Oh, 'tis well that I should bluster,—much I'm like to
make of that;
Better comfort have I found in singing "All Around my
Hat."
But that song, so wildly plaintive, palls upon my British
ears.
'Twill not do to pine for ever,—I am getting up in
years.
Can't I turn the honest penny, scribbling for the weekly
press,
And in writing Sunday libels drown my private wretched-
ness?
Oh, to feel the wild pulsation that in manhood's dawn I
knew,
When my days were all before me, and my years were
twenty-two!
When I smoked my independent pipe along the Quadrant
wide,
With the many larks of London flaring up on every side;
When I went the pace so wildly, caring little what might
come;
Coffee-milling care and sorrow, with a nose-adapted thumb;
Felt the exquisite enjoyment, tossing nightly off, oh
heavens!
Brandy at the Cider Cellars, kidneys smoking-hot at
Evans'!
Or in the Adelphi sitting, half in rapture, half in tears,
Saw the glorious melodrama conjure up the shades of
years!
Saw Jack Sheppard, noble stripling, act his wondrous feats
again,
Snapping Newgate's bars of iron, like an infant's daisy
chain.