Resting here beneath the porch, my nerves will steady like a rock.
In my ears I hear the singing of a lot of favorite tunes—
Bless my heart, how very odd! Why, surely there’s a brace of moons!
See! the stars! how bright they twinkle, winking with a frosty glare,
Like my faithless cousin Amy when she drove me to despair.
O, my cousin, spider-hearted! Oh, my Amy! No, confound it!
I must wear the mournful willow,—all around my hat I’ve bound it.
Falser than the Bank of Fancy,—frailer than a shilling glove,
Puppet to a father’s anger,—minion to a nabob’s love!
Is it well to wish thee happy? Having known me, could you ever