Bruise the fair sugar lumps—
Nature intended
Her sweet and severe
To be everywhere blended.
Pour the still water—
Unwarning by sound,
Eternity's ocean
Is hemming us round.
Mingle the spirit,
The life of the bowl—
Man is an earth-clod
Unwarmed by a soul!
Drink of the stream
Ere its potency goes!—
No bath is refreshing
Except while it glows!
THE SONG OF THE HUMBUGGED HUSBAND. PUNCH.
She's not what fancy painted her—
I'm sadly taken in:
If some one else had won her, I
Should not have cared a pin.
I thought that she was mild and good
As maiden e'er could be;
I wonder how she ever could
Have so much humbugg'd me.
They cluster round and shake my hand—
They tell me I am blest:
My case they do not understand—
I think that I know best.
They say she's fairest of the fair—
They drive me mad and madder.
What do they mean by it? I swear
I only wish they had her.
'Tis true that she has lovely locks,
That on her shoulders fall;
What would they say to see the box
In which she keeps them all?
Her taper fingers, it is true,
'Twere difficult to match:
What would they say if they but knew
How terribly they scratch?