All the week they drudge away,
Having but one holiday;
No more time for you, than that—
Unlike bishops, rich and fat.
Utter not your cheerful sounds,
Therefore, in the bishop's grounds;
Make him melody no more,
Who denies you to the poor.
Linnet, hist! and blackbird, hush!
Throstle, be a songless thrush;
Nightingale and lark, be mute,
Never sing to such a brute.
Robin, at the twilight dim,
Never let thine evening hymn,
Bird of red and ruthful breast,
Lend the bishop's Port a zest.
Soothe not, birds, his lonesome hours,
Keeping us from fields and flowers,
Who to pen us tries, instead,
'Mong the intramural dead.
Only let the raven croak
At him from the rotten oak;
Let the magpie and the jay
Chatter at him on his way.
And when he to rest has laid him,
Let his ears the screech-owl harry;
And the night-jar serenade him
With a proper charivari.
THE FIRST SENSIBLE VALENTINE. (ONE OF THE MOST ASTONISHING FRUITS OF THE EMIGRATION MANIA.) PUNCH.
Let other swains, upon the best cream-laid
Or wire-wove note, their amorous strains indite;
Or, in despair, invoke the limner's aid
To paint the sufferings they can not write:
Upon their page, transfixed with numerous darts,
Let slender youths in agony expire;
Or, on one spit, let two pale pink calves' hearts
Roast at some fierce imaginary fire.
Let ANGELINA there, as in a bower
Of shrubs, unknown to LINDLEY, she reposes,
See her own ALFRED to the old church tower
Led on by CUPID, in a chain of roses;
Or let the wreath, when raised, a cage reveal,
Wherein two doves their little bills entwine;
(A vile device, which always makes me feel
Marriage would only add your bills to mine.)
For arts like these I've neither skill nor time;
But if you'll seek the Diggings, dearest maid,
And share my fortune in that happier clime,
Your berth is taken, and your passage paid.
For reading, lately, in my list of things,
"Twelve dozen shirts! twelve dozen collars," too!
The horrid host of buttons and of strings
Flashed on my spirit, and I thought—of you.