'Tis for _you_ that she
whimpers!
Lewis Carroll
But if it's _yours_, as I infer,
Why, Brown, I give you joy!
A man, whose business prospers so,
Is just the sort of man to know!
"It's hardly safe, though, talking here--
I'd best get out of reach:
For such a weight as yours, I fear,
Must shortly sink the beach! "--
Insult me thus because I'm stout!
I vow I'll go and call him out!
[Picture: For such a weight as yours . . . ]
ATALANTA IN CAMDEN-TOWN
Ay, 'twas here, on this spot,
In that summer of yore,
Atalanta did not
Vote my presence a bore,
Nor reply to my tenderest talk "She had
heard all that nonsense before. "
She'd the brooch I had bought
And the necklace and sash on,
And her heart, as I thought,
Was alive to my passion;
And she'd done up her hair in the style that
the Empress had brought into fashion.
I had been to the play
With my pearl of a Peri--
But, for all I could say,
She declared she was weary,
That "the place was so crowded and hot, and
she couldn't abide that Dundreary. "
[Picture: On this spot . . . ]
Then I thought "Lucky boy!
'Tis for _you_ that she whimpers! "
And I noted with joy
Those sensational simpers:
And I said "This is scrumptious! "--a
phrase I had learned from the Devonshire shrimpers.
And I vowed "'Twill be said
I'm a fortunate fellow,
When the breakfast is spread,
When the topers are mellow,
When the foam of the bride-cake is white,
and the fierce orange-blossoms are yellow! "
O that languishing yawn!
O those eloquent eyes!
I was drunk with the dawn
Of a splendid surmise--
I was stung by a look, I was slain by a tear,
by a tempest of sighs.
Then I whispered "I see
The sweet secret thou keepest.
And the yearning for _ME_
That thou wistfully weepest!
And the question is 'License or Banns? ',
though undoubtedly Banns are the cheapest. "
"Be my Hero," said I,
"And let _me_ be Leander! "
But I lost her reply--
Something ending with "gander"--
For the omnibus rattled so loud that no
mortal could quite understand her.
THE LANG COORTIN'
The ladye she stood at her lattice high,
Wi' her doggie at her feet;
Thorough the lattice she can spy
The passers in the street,
"There's one that standeth at the door,
And tirleth at the pin:
Now speak and say, my popinjay,
If I sall let him in. "
Then up and spake the popinjay
That flew abune her head:
"Gae let him in that tirls the pin:
He cometh thee to wed. "
O when he cam' the parlour in,
A woeful man was he!
