(BY OUR NEWLY-MARRIED POETESS.)
[Illustration]
When the world is full of flowers and of butterflies at play,
I could sit beneath the roses eating chocolates all day;
But my heart is very heavy as I ponder with dismay
On the Mutton Bone a-lying in the Larder!
For GEORGE has squandered sixpence on a telegram from town,
To say that he has come across "that dear old chappie--BROWNE,"
And to dine with us this evening he means to bring him down--
And the Mutton Bone is lying in the Larder!
I have just been down to see it, and my courage sinks a-new,
Though Cook has kindly promised me her very best to do--
Which means that she'll convert into an appetising stew
The Mutton Bone a-lying in the Larder.
But I suddenly remember, with a blush of rosy pink,
That Cook--alas! is given to the frequent use of drink,
And if she once gets muddled up--perhaps she'll never think
Of the Mutton Bone a-lying in the Larder!
* * * * *
As the western sun is gilding all the heather of the moor,
Down the basement stairs I'm creeping--till a widely open door
Shows me Cook in heavy slumber on her cherished kitchen floor--
And the Mutton Bone is lying in the Larder!
O GEORGE, there'll be no dinner, dear, for you and BROWNE to-day!
I picture to myself the pretty words that you will say--
And I seize my guinea bonnet--and I wander far away
From the Mutton Bone a-lying in the Larder!
* * * * *