Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems by the late Thomas Haynes Bayly; Edited by his Widow. With A Memoir of the Author. In Two Volumes |
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HEARTS-EASE. |
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 | Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems |  |
53
HEARTS-EASE.
I
I've peeped at Parisian bowers,I've rambled to Naples and Rome;
But weary of costlier flowers,
I now gather HEARTS-EASE at home:
No hotbed henceforth shall be tried,
It grows best by my own fireside.
II
I think a fat man is a fool,Who goes voyaging and coaching about;
The foreigners call him John Bull,
As if all the English were stout!
In London I'm sure people stare,
I'm a great curiosity there!
III
At Dover they rumpled my best coat,And swore, like unmannerly brutes,
I had contraband lace in my waistcoat,
And Eau de Cologne in my boots!
In vain I cried, “Why will you doubt me?
I've nought unsubstantial about be.”
IV
My bootmaker yearly enlargesHis bill, with the growth of my calf;
And my tailor increases his charges
And books me “a coat and a half!”
He can't raise my small-clothes, how can he?
Small clothes! why I never wear any!
V
My friend Doctor Camomile offeredTo cure my rheumatic attack;
But he laughed when I said that I suffered
A pain in the small of my back!
Ah me! he did nothing but quiz it:
“The small of your back! pray where is it?”
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VI
If ever they put me in fetters,My bondage eternal must be;
For if they enlarge other debtors,
I'm sure they will not enlarge me!
They'll make light of my claims if they will,
Yet I shall look big at them still.
VII
Young Cupid will never o'ertake me,No, no, I must pine on the shelf;
If ever I'm match'd, he must make me
A Fatima fat as myself.
But never again will I roam,
I'm content with my Hearts-ease at home.
VIII
I'm sure I don't envy the loversOf sport, though inactive and lame;
I've not far to go for the covers,
Under which the Cook places my game;
Three courses I manage myself,
And I've got my preserves on a shelf!
IX
In France, for this exquisite dinner,A nap. they would charge me at least;
But here, after all, I'm a winner,
A nap I secure by the feast.
And of the past dreaming, at last,
Recollection becomes a repast!
X
My dogs either beg a tit-bit,Or curl themselves up on the rug;
And I in my easy chair sit,
Luxurious, silken, and snug:
And my HEARTS-EASE I trust is secure,
For I have not forgotten the poor.
| Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems | |