That very self-same afternoon
They started on their honeymoon,
And (oh, astonishment!) took flight
To a pretty little cottage close to Shanklin, Isle of Wight.
But now—you’ll doubt my word, I know—
In a month they both returned, and lo!
Astounding fact! this happy pair
Took a gentlemanly residence in Canonbury Square!
They led a weird and reckless life,
They dined each day, this man and wife
(Pray disbelieve it, if you please),
On a joint of meat, a pudding, and a little bit of cheese.
In time came those maternal joys
Which take the form of girls or boys,
And strange to say of each they’d one—
A tiddy-iddy daughter, and a tiddy-iddy son!
Oh, list to this incredible tale
Of Thomson Green and Harriet Hale,
Its truth in one remark you’ll sum—
“Twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!”
My name for truth is gone, I fear,
But, monstrous as it may appear,
They let their drawing-room one day
To an eligible person in the cotton-broking way.
Whenever Thomson Green fell sick
His wife called in a doctor, quick,
From whom some words like these would come—
Fiat mist. sumendum haustus, in a cochleyareum.
For thirty years this curious pair
Hung out in Canonbury Square,
And somehow, wonderful to say,
They loved each other dearly in a quiet sort of way.
Well, Thomson Green fell ill and died;
For just a year his widow cried,
And then her heart she gave away
To the eligible lodger in the cotton-broking way.
Oh, list to this incredible tale
Of Thomson Green and Harriet Hale,
Its truth in one remark you’ll sum—
“Twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!”