 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
A CONVENIENT ARRANGEMENT. —(M. Post.)
Little can surprise me further,
Now I'm getting sere and gray,
Not the mystery of murther
Done the queer Whitechapel way—
Not the wonder in pomatum,
Bound to clothe the baldest head—
Not the latest ultimatum,
Gladstone's, that would wake the dead—
Not that target for the scorner
Throwing thousands on the street,
That delightful business “corner”
Where the filthiest fingers meet.
Now I'm getting sere and gray,
Not the mystery of murther
Done the queer Whitechapel way—
Not the wonder in pomatum,
Bound to clothe the baldest head—
Not the latest ultimatum,
Gladstone's, that would wake the dead—
Not that target for the scorner
Throwing thousands on the street,
That delightful business “corner”
Where the filthiest fingers meet.
But I was surprised a little,
Feeling too a twinge of pain,
Spite of resolutions brittle
Not to be surprised again;
When at breakfast, in the Paper,
One that elevates me most,
Flashed my love's astounding caper,
Flourished in the “Morning Post”;
Yes, my heart was somewhat fluttered,
Not that I my garments tore,
But I ate my toast unbuttered,
For one mouthful—if not more.
Feeling too a twinge of pain,
Spite of resolutions brittle
Not to be surprised again;
When at breakfast, in the Paper,
One that elevates me most,
Flashed my love's astounding caper,
Flourished in the “Morning Post”;
382
Not that I my garments tore,
But I ate my toast unbuttered,
For one mouthful—if not more.
She is young and fair, not twenty,
Bright with every charm and grace,
All that woman gifts, in plenty—
Yet no fortune but her face;
And I loved her, deemed the blossom
Opened only unto me,
Fancied mine the maiden bosom
Beat with happy hopes to be;
And I love her now, though selling
What should never thus be sold,—
Honour for a palace dwelling,
Beauty for a pile of gold.
Bright with every charm and grace,
All that woman gifts, in plenty—
Yet no fortune but her face;
And I loved her, deemed the blossom
Opened only unto me,
Fancied mine the maiden bosom
Beat with happy hopes to be;
And I love her now, though selling
What should never thus be sold,—
Honour for a palace dwelling,
Beauty for a pile of gold.
He is old and ugly, burnished
Up to date like fattened pigs,
With a head to let unfurnished
And the wildest thing in wigs;
Has a mansion on the river,
Meadows winter turns to marsh,
Diamonds, a decaying liver,
Eskell's teeth, a dyed moustache;
Owning many a horse and carriage,
Scores of servants (weekly changed),
Millions thieved—and so “a marriage
“Is,” as you may read, “arranged.”
Up to date like fattened pigs,
With a head to let unfurnished
And the wildest thing in wigs;
Has a mansion on the river,
Meadows winter turns to marsh,
Diamonds, a decaying liver,
Eskell's teeth, a dyed moustache;
Owning many a horse and carriage,
Scores of servants (weekly changed),
Millions thieved—and so “a marriage
“Is,” as you may read, “arranged.”
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |