(_Not by Dante Gabriel Rossetti_)
ON Christmas day I dined with Brown.
(_Oh the dinner was fine to see!_)
I drove to his house, right merrily down,
To a western square of London town.
(_And I moan and I cry, Woe’s me!_)
We dined off turkey and Christmas beef:
(_Oh the dinner was fine to see!_)
My anguish is sore and my comfort’s brief,
And nought but blue pills can ease my grief,
(_As I moan and I cry, Woe’s me!_)
We gorged plum-pudding and hot mince pies,
(_Oh the dinner was fine to see!_)
And other nameless atrocities,
The weight of which on my—bosom lies.
(_And I moan and I cry, Woe’s me!_)
We drank dry Clicquot and rare old port,
(_Oh the dinner was fine to see!_)
And I pledged my host for a right good sort
In bumpers of both, for I never thought
(_I should moan and cry, Woe’s me!_)
But I woke next day with a fearful head,
(_Oh that dinner was fine to see!_)
And on my chest is a weight like lead,
And I frequently wish that I were dead,
(_And I moan and I cry, Woe’s me!_)
And as for Brown—why the truth to tell—
(_Oh that dinner was fine to see!_)
I hate him now with the hate of hell,
Though before I loved him passing well,
(_And I moan and I cry, Woe’s me!_)
_Anonymous._