He cried, “Oh this is hard, indeed—
I mayn’t caress my love, nor
With blameless word win blameless meed—
O cruel, cruel guv’nor!”
I said, you know, some time ago,
Their houses stood contiguous;
Not dos-à-dos, but in a row—
I hate to be ambiguous.
Well, little Love, who’s up to snuff,
In pitying mood, one day,
Proposed a plan; and sure enough
They tried, and found it pay.
He whispered in the ear of each,
“Seek out some little hole in
Your wall, through which your lover’s speech
May echo most consoling.”
They searched above, they searched below,
To find affection’s keyhole;
Till—just when all appear’d “no go,”
They found a little wee hole.
A rotten brick had come in two—
They saw the cranny—nay, more.
They saw their love by peeping through,
Ah! “Quid non sentit amor?”
They poked the useless brick away
By digging out the mortar;
And there they passed the livelong day
In whispers and “soft sawder.”
Then, Thisbe ’d cry, “Oh dear, oh dear,
My eyes are full of dust, love;
You must come round and kiss me here,
Indeed, indeed, you must, love.”
And then, poor Pyramus would say,
“God bless me, how can this be?
I’ve kissed a dirty lump of clay,
And not my pretty Thisbe!