There with coils of rope I strapped him to my sofa, firm and fast,
Douched him, doused him, bled and tapped him, till I sobered him at
last,
To that lost expression led him—that was all that I was at—
As for days and weeks I fed him on suggestions of green fat.
Thus I caught that lost expression, and I cried, "Thrice happy day!
Once again 'tis my possession." Then I turned and fled away.
Without swerving or digression to my Dora straight I sped,
And she gazed at that expression, then she clapped her hands and
said—
"You have found it—who'd have thought it?—you have brought it me
again!"
"Yes!" I cried, "and as I've brought it, make me happiest of men."
But—oh! who could tell her sorrow, as she cried in wistful tones?—
"Dick, I'd marry you to-morrow, but I'm Mrs. Bowler Jones!"
A NIGHT SCENE.
BY ROBERT B. BROUGH.
Out of the grog-shop, I've stepp'd in the street.
Road, what's the matter? you're loose on your feet;
Staggering, swaggering, reeling about,
Road, you're in liquor, past question or doubt.
Gas-lamps, be quiet—stand up, if you please.
What the deuce ails you? you're weak in the knees:
Some on your heads—in the gutter some sunk—
Gas-lamps, I see it, you're all of you drunk.
Angels and ministers! look at the moon—
Shining up there like a paper balloon,
Winking like mad at me: Moon, I'm afraid—
Now I'm convinced—Oh! you tipsy old jade.
Here's a phenomenon: Look at the stars—
Jupiter, Ceres, Uranus, and Mars,
Dancing quadrilles; caper'd, shuffl'd and hopp'd.
Heavenly bodies! this ought to be stopp'd.
Down come the houses! each drunk as a king—
Can't say I fancy much this sort of thing;
Inside the bar it was safe and all right,
I shall go back there, and stop for the night.