 | The Ingoldsby Lyrics |  |
245
To Mrs. Scoones.
A BIRTHDAY ODE.
When I was young,
Full oft I've sung
Gay birthday odes to birthday tunes,
Nor shall my muse
E'en now refuse
One little stave to Mrs. Scoones.
Full oft I've sung
Gay birthday odes to birthday tunes,
Nor shall my muse
E'en now refuse
One little stave to Mrs. Scoones.
No! though Time runs,
And fifty suns
(Of course thirteen times fifty moons)
Have made me grey,
This latest lay
I'll venture yet for Mrs. Scoones.
And fifty suns
(Of course thirteen times fifty moons)
Have made me grey,
This latest lay
I'll venture yet for Mrs. Scoones.
In days of yore
Folks rose by Four,
Our mornings were their afternoons;
'Tis Twelve at best
Ere I am drest,
For which I am blamed by Mrs. Scoones.
Folks rose by Four,
Our mornings were their afternoons;
'Tis Twelve at best
Ere I am drest,
For which I am blamed by Mrs. Scoones.
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Up with the sun
They dined at One;
While we, alas! far lazier loons,
Can hardly fix
To dine at Six;—
(The hour, I think, of Mrs. Scoones.)
They dined at One;
While we, alas! far lazier loons,
Can hardly fix
To dine at Six;—
(The hour, I think, of Mrs. Scoones.)
Thus Seven was past
Ere our repast,
With cloth and knives and forks and spoons,
Was cleared away
And I could say—
“One bumper now to Mrs. Scoones!”
Ere our repast,
With cloth and knives and forks and spoons,
Was cleared away
And I could say—
“One bumper now to Mrs. Scoones!”
The toast went round—
“May joys abound,
Long life and health—that best of boons!”
Ned, Mary Anne,
And chattering Fan
All joined in—“God bless Mrs. Scoones!”
“May joys abound,
Long life and health—that best of boons!”
Ned, Mary Anne,
And chattering Fan
All joined in—“God bless Mrs. Scoones!”
The postman's bell,
That horrid knell
That frights one into fits and swoons,
Had passed our door
An hour before,—
Too late to write to Mrs. Scoones!
That horrid knell
That frights one into fits and swoons,
Had passed our door
An hour before,—
Too late to write to Mrs. Scoones!
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And Time's rude knife
In middle life
Fair Fancy's wings so closely prunes,
One can't essay
To write a lay
In half an hour to Mrs. Scoones.
In middle life
Fair Fancy's wings so closely prunes,
One can't essay
To write a lay
In half an hour to Mrs. Scoones.
Would wishes bear
Us through the air—
Ah! wishes are not air balloons—
Beyond all doubt,
We had set out
To whisper thus to Mrs. Scoones:
Us through the air—
Ah! wishes are not air balloons—
Beyond all doubt,
We had set out
To whisper thus to Mrs. Scoones:
“May years of joy
Without alloy
Roll on,—the months all Mays and Junes;
While Halbar, Phil,
Jane, Frank, and Will
Spring up like flowers round Mrs. Scoones!”
Without alloy
Roll on,—the months all Mays and Junes;
While Halbar, Phil,
Jane, Frank, and Will
Spring up like flowers round Mrs. Scoones!”
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