By the light of the sweetest of moons,
Oh how little I dreamt I was bidding good-bye
To my Missis’s tea-pot and spoons!
No. III.
“I’d be a Parody.”—BAILEY.
WE met—’twas in a mob—and I thought he had done me—
I felt—I could not feel—for no watch was upon me;
He ran—the night was cold—and his pace was unalter’d,
I too longed much to pelt—but my small-boned legs falter’d.