But ah! the brute was hardly gone
When Pyramus drew near—
“My Thisbe! Where’s my love—my own—
Good gracious me! what’s here?
“Oh, Thisbe, dearest, are you dead;
Can this orn robe say true?
All pawed and clawed and bloody red,—
My love, I’ll follow you!”
Then out he drew his shining blade,
“Grim Death—a friend art thou—
My folly’s slain earth’s fairest maid!
I’ll not survive—so now!”
With that, he gave a deadly dig,
Another, and one more,
Then kicked and hollo’d like a pig—
And his short life was o’er.
Poor Thisbe! fancy how she cried
To find her lover struck;—
“Great Gods! I’ll slumber by his side,
The darling, darling duck!”
She snatched the weapon from the wound,
And bared her snowy breast;
Once gazed in maddening grief around,
And then—we know the rest!
Punch, 1844.
AT THE GREAT EXHIBITION OF 1861.