 | The Poetical Works of Laman Blanchard |  |
320
SUCH A DUCK.
Once Venus, deeming Love too fat,
Stopped all his rich ambrosial dishes,
Dooming the boy to live on chat,
To sup on songs, and dine on wishes.
Love, lean and lank, flew off to prowl—
The starvelling now no beauty boasted—
He could have munched Minerva's owl,
Or Juno's peacock, boiled or roasted.
Stopped all his rich ambrosial dishes,
Dooming the boy to live on chat,
To sup on songs, and dine on wishes.
Love, lean and lank, flew off to prowl—
The starvelling now no beauty boasted—
He could have munched Minerva's owl,
Or Juno's peacock, boiled or roasted.
At last, half famished, almost dead,
He shot his Mother's Doves for dinner;
Young Lilla, passing, shook her head—
Cried Love, ‘A shot at you, young sinner!’
‘Oh, not at me!’—she urged her flight—
‘I'm neither dove, nor lark, nor starling!’
‘No,’—fainting Cupid cried—‘not quite;
But then—you're such a—duck—my darling!’
He shot his Mother's Doves for dinner;
Young Lilla, passing, shook her head—
Cried Love, ‘A shot at you, young sinner!’
‘Oh, not at me!’—she urged her flight—
‘I'm neither dove, nor lark, nor starling!’
‘No,’—fainting Cupid cried—‘not quite;
But then—you're such a—duck—my darling!’
1842.
| The Poetical Works of Laman Blanchard | |