“Tell me, HENRY WADSWORTH, ALFRED POET CLOSE, or MISTER TUPPER,
Do you write the bon bon mottoes my ELVIRA pulls at supper?”
But HENRY WADSWORTH smiled, and said he had not had that honour;
And ALFRED, too, disclaimed the words that told so much upon her.
“MISTER MARTIN TUPPER, POET CLOSE, I beg of you inform us;”
But my question seemed to throw them both into a rage enormous.
MISTER CLOSE expressed a wish that he could only get anigh to me;
And MISTER MARTIN TUPPER sent the following reply to me:
“A fool is bent upon a twig, but wise men dread a bandit,”—
Which I know was very clever; but I didn’t understand it.
Seven weary years I wandered—Patagonia, China, Norway,
Till at last I sank exhausted at a pastrycook his doorway.
There were fuchsias and geraniums, and daffodils and myrtle,
So I entered, and I ordered half a basin of mock turtle.
He was plump and he was chubby, he was smooth and he was rosy,
And his little wife was pretty and particularly cosy.
And he chirped and sang, and skipped about, and laughed with laughter
hearty—
He was wonderfully active for so very stout a party.
And I said, “O gentle pieman, why so very, very merry?
Is it purity of conscience, or your one-and-seven sherry?”
But he answered, “I’m so happy—no profession could be dearer—
If I am not humming ‘Tra! la! la!’ I’m singing ‘Tirer, lirer!’
“First I go and make the patties, and the puddings, and the jellies,
Then I make a sugar bird-cage, which upon a table swell is;
“Then I polish all the silver, which a supper-table lacquers;
Then I write the pretty mottoes which you find inside the crackers.”—
“Found at last!” I madly shouted. “Gentle pieman, you astound me!”
Then I waved the turtle soup enthusiastically round me.
And I shouted and I danced until he’d quite a crowd around him—
And I rushed away exclaiming, “I have found him! I have found him!”
And I heard the gentle pieman in the road behind me trilling,
“‘Tira, lira!’ stop him, stop him! ‘Tra! la! la!’ the soup’s a
shilling!”
But until I reached ELVIRA’S home, I never, never waited,
And ELVIRA to her FERDINAND’S irrevocably mated!
TO MY BRIDE
(WHOEVER SHE MAY BE.)
OH! little maid!—(I do not know your name
Or who you are, so, as a safe precaution
I’ll add)—Oh, buxom widow! married dame!
(As one of these must be your present portion)
Listen, while I unveil prophetic lore for you,
And sing the fate that Fortune has in store for you.
You’ll marry soon—within a year or twain—
A bachelor of _circa_ two and thirty:
Tall, gentlemanly, but extremely plain,
And when you’re intimate, you’ll call him “BERTIE.”
Neat—dresses well; his temper has been classified
As hasty; but he’s very quickly pacified.
You’ll find him working mildly at the Bar,
After a touch at two or three professions,
From easy affluence extremely far,
A brief or two on Circuit—“soup” at Sessions;
A pound or two from whist and backing horses,
And, say three hundred from his own resources.
Quiet in harness; free from serious vice,
His faults are not particularly shady,
You’ll never find him “_shy_”—for, once or twice
Already, he’s been driven by a lady,
Who parts with him—perhaps a poor excuse for him—
Because she hasn’t any further use for him.
Oh! bride of mine—tall, dumpy, dark, or fair!
Oh! widow—wife, maybe, or blushing maiden,
I’ve told _your_ fortune; solved the gravest care
With which your mind has hitherto been laden.
I’ve prophesied correctly, never doubt it;
Now tell me mine—and please be quick about it!
You—only you—can tell me, an’ you will,
To whom I’m destined shortly to be mated,
Will she run up a heavy _modiste’s_ bill?
If so, I want to hear her income stated
(This is a point which interests me greatly).
To quote the bard, “Oh! have I seen her lately?”
Say, must I wait till husband number one
Is comfortably stowed away at Woking?
How is her hair most usually done?
And tell me, please, will she object to smoking?
The colour of her eyes, too, you may mention:
Come, Sibyl, prophesy—I’m all attention.