The Complete Works of Lewis Carroll with an introduction by Alexander Woollcott and the illustrations by John Tenniel |
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EARLY VERSE |
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VII. |
The Complete Works of Lewis Carroll | ||
EARLY VERSE
MY FAIRY
(1845)
Which says I must not sleep,
When once in pain I loudly cried
It said “You must not weep.”
It says “You must not laugh;”
When once I wished to drink some gin
It said “You must not quaff.”
It said “You must not bite;”
When to the wars I went in haste
It said “You must not fight.”
Tired of the painful task.
The fairy quietly replied,
And said “You must not ask.”
PUNCTUALITY
And to procrastinate;
Business put off from day to day
Is always done too late.
Firm fixed, nor loosely shift,
And well enjoy the vacant space,
As though a birthday gift.
Where'er that “there” may be;
Uncleanly hands or ruffled hair
Let no one ever see.
At “half-past” then be dressed.
If at a “quarter-past” make haste
To be down with the rest.
Than e'er to be behind;
To ope the door while strikes the chime,
That shows a punctual mind.
Moral
Let punctuality and careSeize every flitting hour,
So shalt thou cull a floweret fair,
E'en from a fading flower.
MELODIES
I
Who made holes in his face with a needle,
Then went far deeper in
Than to pierce through the skin,
And yet strange to say he was made beadle.
II
Who wore a hat made of brown paper,
It went up to a point,
Yet it looked out of joint,
The cause of which he said was “vapour.”
III
Who daily got shorter and shorter,
The reason he said
Was the hod on his head,
Which was filled with the heaviest mortar.
Grew constantly thinner and thinner;
The reason was plain,
She slept out in the rain,
And was never allowed any dinner.
BROTHER AND SISTER
Go and rest your weary head.”
Thus the prudent brother said.
Or scratches to your face applied?”
Thus his sister calm replied.
I'd make you into mutton broth
As easily as kill a moth!”
And looked on him indignantly
And sternly answered, “Only try!”
“Dear Cook, please lend a frying-pan
To me as quickly as you can.”
“The reason, Cook, is plain to view.
I wish to make an Irish stew.”
“My sister'll be the contents!”
“Oh!”
“You'll lend the pan to me, Cook?”
“No!”
Moral: Never stew your sister.
FACTS
And fire it off towards the sun;
I grant 'twould reach its mark at last,
But not till many years had passed.
And to the planets take its course,
'Twould never reach the nearest star,
Because it is so very far.
RULES AND REGULATIONS
To avoid dejection,
By variations
In occupations,
And prolongation
Of relaxation,
And combinations
Of recreations,
And disputation
On the state of the nation
In adaptation
To your station,
By invitations
To friends and relations,
By evitation
Of amputation,
By permutation
In conversation,
And deep reflection
You'll avoid dejection.
And never stammer,
Write well and neatly,
And sing most sweetly,
Be enterprising,
Love early rising,
Go walk of six miles,
Have ready quick smiles,
With lightsome laughter,
Soft flowing after.
Drink tea, not coffee;
Eat bread with butter.
Once more, don't stutter.
Don't waste your money,
Abstain from honey.
Shut doors behind you,
(Don't slam them, mind you.)
Drink beer, not porter.
Don't enter the water
Till to swim you are able.
Sit close to the table.
Take care of a candle.
Shut a door by the handle,
Don't push with your shoulder
Until you are older.
Lose not a button.
Refuse cold mutton.
Starve your canaries.
Believe in fairies.
If you are able,
Don't have a stable
With any mangers.
Be rude to strangers.
HORRORS
(1850)
Dim horrors all around;
The air was thick with many a face,
And black as night the ground.
Its face of grimmliest green,
On human beings used to feed,
Most dreadful to be seen.
I fell down in that place,
I saw the monster's horrid eye
Come leering in my face!
Amidst my moanings deep,
I heard a voice, “Wake! Mr. Jones,
You're screaming in your sleep!”
MISUNDERSTANDINGS
I should have told you so before,
But as I didn't, then you ought
To ask for such a thing no more,
For to teach one who has been taught
Is always thought an awful bore.
I shall premise an observation,
On which the greatest kings have leant
When striving to subdue a nation,
And e'en the wretch who pays no rent
By it can solve a hard equation.
Can not avail to shake its power,
Yet e'en the sun in summer season
Doth not dispel so mild a shower
As this, and he who sees it, sees on
Beyond it to a sunny bower—
No more, when ignorance is treason,
Let wisdom's brows be cold and sour.
AS IT FELL UPON A DAY
(And O, but a hog is fat!)
A man came hurrying up the path,
(And what care I for that?)
His breath both quick and short he drew.
His face grew paler than before.
The man fell fainting to the ground.
Once and again I heard him fall.
He shrieked and tore his raven hair.
(And O, but a hog is fat!)
I ran him through with a golden pin,
(And what care I for that?)
YE FATTALE CHEYSE
Weet scroggis owr ytte creepe.
Gurgles withyn ye flowan wave
Throw channel braid an deep
Wes sene ye lyghte of daye,
Quhat bode azont yts mirkinesse
Nane kend an nane mote saye.
An drave ye yellynge packe,
Hiz meany au' richte cadgily
Are wendynge yn hiz tracke.
Ye hondes yode down ye rocks,
Ahead of au' their companye
Renneth ye panky foxe.
Forewearied wi' hiz rin.
Quha nou ys he sae bauld an braw
To dare to enter yn?
Gane till that caverne dreir,
Fou many a yowl ys hearde arounde,
Fou many a screech of feir.
Quha swalloweth orange pulp,
Wes hearde a huggle an a bite,
A swallow an a gulp.
Outbrayde hiz trenchant brande;
“Quha on my packe of hondes doth feed,
Maun deye benead thilke hande.”
Fou many a mickle stroke,
Sowns lyke ye flappynge of a birde,
A struggle an a choke.
Wi pow an push and hau' —
Whereof Y've drawne a littel bytte,
Bot durst not draw ytte au.
LAYS OF SORROW
No. 1
Like jars of strawberry jam, a
Sound was heard in the old henhouse,
A beating of a hammer.
Of stalwart form, and visage warm,
Two youths were seen within it,
Splitting up an old tree into perches for their poultry
At a hundred strokes a minute.
Possession of her nest and eggs,
Without a thought of eggs and bacon,
(Or I am very much mistaken:)
She turns over each shell,
To be sure that all's well,
Looks into the straw
To see there's no flaw,
Goes once round the house,
Half afraid of a mouse,
Then sinks calmly to rest
On the top of her nest,
First doubling up each of her legs.
Time rolled away, and so did every shell,
“Small by degrees and beautifully less,”
Forced each in turn its contents to express,
But ah! “imperfect is expression,”
Some poet said, I don't care who,
If you want to know you must go elsewhere,
One fact I can tell, if you're willing to hear,
He never attended a Parliament Session,
For I'm certain that if he had ever been there,
Full quickly would he have changed his ideas,
With the hissings, the hootings, the groans and the cheers.
And as to his name it is pretty clear
That it wasn't me and it wasn't you!
(That is, it never rose again)
A chick was found upon the hay,
Its little life had ebbed away.
No longer frolicsome and gay,
No longer could it run or play.
“And must we, chicken, must we part?”
Its master cried with bursting heart,
And voice of agony and pain.
So one, whose ticket's marked “Return,”
When to the lonely roadside station
He flies in fear and perturbation,
Thinks of his home—the hissing urn—
Then runs with flying hat and hair,
And, entering, finds to his despair
He's missed the very latest train.
Of chicken suicide, and poultry victim,
The deadly frown, the stern and dreary lecture,
The timid guess, “perhaps some needle pricked him!”
The din of voice, the words both loud and many,
The sob, the tear, the sigh that none could smother,
Till all agreed “a shilling to a penny
It killed itself, and we acquit the mother!”
Scarce was the verdict spoken,
When that still calm was broken,
A childish form hath burst into the throng;
With tears and looks of sadness,
That bring no news of gladness,
But tell too surely something hath gone wrong!
“The sight that I have come upon
The stoutest heart would sicken,
That nasty hen has been and gone
And killed another chicken!”
The system of return tickets is an excellent one. People are conveyed, on particular days, there and back again for one fare.
LAYS OF SORROW
No. 2
The Rectory of Croft,
The sun shines bright upon it,
The breezes whisper soft.
Its inhabitants come forth,
And muster in the road without,
And pace in twos and threes about,
The children of the North.
Some are waiting at the door,
And some are following behind,
And some have gone before.
But wherefore all this mustering?
Wherefore this vast array?
A gallant feat of horsemanship
Will be performed to-day.
The crowd divides amain,
Two youths are leading on the steed,
Both tugging at the rein;
For the steed is very strong,
And backward moves its stubborn feet,
And backward ever doth retreat,
And drags its guides along.
Before the admiring band,
Hath got the stirrups on his feet,
The bridle in his hand.
Yet, oh! beware, sir horseman!
And tempt thy fate no more,
For such a steed as thou hast got
Was never rid before!
And cower in the straw;
The chickens are submissive,
And own thy will for law;
Bullfinches and canary
Thy bidding do obey;
And e'en the tortoise in its shell
Doth never say thee nay.
Thy steed will bear no stick,
And woe to those that beat her,
And woe to those that kick!
For though her rider smite her,
As hard as he can hit,
And strive to turn her from the yard,
Against the pulling bit.
Hath felt their coming tread,
The crowd are speeding on before,
And all have gone ahead.
Yet often look they backward,
And cheer him on, and bawl,
For slower still, and still more slow,
That horseman and that charger go,
And scarce advance at all.
Are in that rider's sight:
In front the road to Dalton,
And New Croft upon the right.
“I can't get by!” he bellows,
“I really am not able!
Though I pull my shoulder out of joint,
I cannot get him past this point,
For it leads unto his stable!”
A valiant youth was he,
“Lo! I will stand on thy right hand
And guard the pass for thee!”
And out spake fair Flureeza,
His sister eke was she,
“I will abide on thy other side,
And turn thy steed for thee!”
Between that steed and rider,
For all the strength that he hath left
Doth not suffice to guide her.
Though Ulfrid and his sister
Have kindly stopped the way,
And all the crowd have cried aloud,
“We can't wait here all day!”
Their words to understand,
But he slipped the stirrups from his feet
The bridle from his hand,
And grasped the mane full lightly,
And vaulted from his seat,
And gained the road in triumph,
And stood upon his feet.
Had Ulfrid Longbow stood,
And faced the foe right valiantly,
As every warrior should.
But when safe on terra firma
His brother he did spy,
“What did you do that for?” he cried,
Then unconcerned he stepped aside
And let it canter by.
As much as four strong rabbits
Could munch from morn to night,
For he'd done a deed of daring,
And faced that savage steed,
And therefore cups of coffee sweet,
And everything that was a treat,
Were but his right and meed.
When the fire is blazing bright,
When books bestrew the table
And moths obscure the light,
When crying children go to bed,
A struggling, kicking load;
We'll talk of Ulfrid Longbow's deed,
How, in his brother's utmost need,
Back to his aid he flew with speed,
And how he faced the fiery steed,
And kept the New Croft Road.
This Rectory has been supposed to have been built in the time of Edward VI, but recent discoveries clearly assign its origin to a much earlier period. A stone has been found in an island formed by the river Tees on which is inscribed the letter “A,” which is justly conjectured to stand for the name of the great King Alfred, in whose reign this house was probably built.
A full account of the history and misfortunes of these interesting creatures may be found in the first “Lay of Sorrow.”
This valiant knight, besides having a heart of steel and nerves of iron, has been lately in the habit of carrying a brick in his eye.
The reader will probably be at a loss to discover the nature of this triumph, as no object was gained, and the donkey was obviously the victor; on this point, however, we are sorry to say we can offer no good explanation.
Much more acceptable to a true knight than “corn-land” which the Roman people were so foolish as to give to their daring champion, Horatius.
THE TWO BROTHERS
(1853)
And when they had left the place,
It was, “Will ye learn Greek and Latin?
Or will ye run me a race?
Or will ye go up to yonder bridge,
And there we will angle for dace?”
I'm too lazy by half for a race,
So I'll even go up to yonder bridge,
And there we will angle for dace.”
And to them he has added another,
And then a great hook he took from his book,
And ran it right into his brother.
When playfully pelting a pig,
But a far greater pother was made by his brother
When flung from the top of the brigg.
All ready and eager to bite,
For the lad that he flung was so tender and young,
It quite gave them an appetite.
And the fish take him quite at their ease,
For me to annoy it was ever his joy,
Now I'll teach him the meaning of ‘Tees’!”
“My brother, you didn't had ought ter!
And what have I done that you think it such fun
To indulge in the pleasure of slaughter?
When I'm merely expected to see,
But a bite from a fish is not quite what I wish,
When I get it performed upon me;
And just now here's a swarm of dace at my arm,
And a perch has got hold of my knee.
And of fish I have quite sufficien—”
“Oh fear not!” he cried, “for whatever betide,
We are both in the selfsame condition!
(Not considering the question of slaughter),
For I have my perch on the top of the bridge,
And you have your perch in the water.
We are really extremely alike;
I've a turn-pike up here, and I very much fear
You may soon have a turn with a pike.”
(For your bait is your brother, good man!)
Pull him up if you like, but I hope you will strike
As gently as ever you can.”
I must strike him like lightning that's greased;
Till I've waited ten minutes at least.”
Your brother a victim may fall!”
“I'll reduce it to five, so perhaps you'll survive,
But the chance is exceedingly small.”
Is it iron, or granite, or steel?”
“Why, I really can't say—it is many a day
Since my heart was accustomed to feel.
Each day did my malice grow worse,
For my heart didn't soften with doing it so often,
But rather, I should say, the reverse.”
Learning lessons in fear of the birch!”
“Nay, brother!” he cried, “for whatever betide,
You are better off here with your perch!
With nothing to do but to play;
And this single line here, it is perfectly clear,
Is much better than thirty a day!
And apparently ready to fall,
That, you know, was the case, when you lived in that place,
So it need not be reckoned at all.
(Just to speak on a pleasanter theme,)
Observe, my dear brother, our love for each other—
He's the one I like best in the stream.
(We shall all of us think it a treat);
If the day should be fine, I'll just drop him a line,
And we'll settle what time we're to meet.
And his manners are not of the best,
So I think it quite fair that it should be my care,
To see that he's properly dressed.”
And that “man suffers more than the brute”:
Each several word with patience he heard,
And answered with wisdom to boot.
Than lying all snugly and flat?
Do but look at that dish filled with glittering fish,
Has Nature a picture like that?
Of fish full of life and of glee?
What a noodle you are! 'tis delightfuller far
To kill them than let them go free!
Of the beauty of earth, sky, and ocean;
Of the birds as they fly, of the fish darting by,
Rejoicing in Life and in Motion.
It is all very well for a flat,
But I think it all gammon, for hooking a salmon
Is better than twenty of that!
Will love the dumb creatures he sees—
What's the use of his mind, if he's never inclined
To pull a fish out of the Tees?
Take the money I have in the Bank;
It is just what I wish, but deprive me of fish,
And my life would indeed be a blank!”
Her brothers for to see,
But when she saw that sight of awe,
The tear stood in her e'e.
My brother, tell to me?”
“It is but the fantailed pigeon,
He would not sing for me.”
A simpleton he must be!
But a pigeon-cote is a different thing
To the coat that there I see!”
Dear brother, tell to me?”
“It is my younger brother,” he cried,
“Oh woe and dole is me!
Or how could such things be?
Farewell, farewell, sweet sister,
I'm going o'er the sea.”
My brother, tell to me?”
“When chub is good for human food,
And that will never be!”
And her heart brake into three,
Said, “One of the two will be wet through and through,
And t'other'll be late for his tea!”
THE LADY OF THE LADLE
(1854)
The Youth at Eve had drunk his fill,Where stands the “Royal” on the Hill,
And long his mid-day stroll had made,
On the so-called “Marine Parade”—
(Meant, I presume, for Seamen brave,
Whose “march is on the Mountain wave”;
'Twere just the bathing-place for him
Who stays on land till he can swim—)
And he had strayed into the Town,
And paced each alley up and down,
Where still, so narrow grew the way,
The very houses seemed to say,
Nodding to friends across the Street,
“One struggle more and we shall meet.”
And he had scaled that wondrous stair
That soars from earth to upper air,
Where rich and poor alike must climb,
And walk the treadmill for a time.
That morning he had dressed with care,
And put Pomatum on his hair;
He was, the loungers all agreed,
A very heavy swell indeed:
Men thought him, as he swaggered by,
Some scion of nobility,
And never dreamed, so cold his look,
That he had loved—and loved a Cook.
Upon the beach he stood and sighed
Unheedful of the treacherous tide;
Thus sang he to the listening main,
And soothed his sorrow with the strain!
CORONACH
She is lost unto Whitby,
And her name is Matilda,
Which my heart it was smit by;
Tho' I take the Goliah,
I learn to my sorrow
That ‘it won't,’ said the crier,
‘Be off till to-morrow.’
(Tho' there mayn't be much in it,)
And I should have been ready,
If she'd waited a minute;
I was following behind her
When, if you recollect, I
Merely ran back to find a
Gold pin for my neck-tie.
Prime hand at a sausage!
I have lost thee, I rue it,
And my fare for the passage!
Perhaps she thinks it funny,
Aboard of the Hilda,
But I've lost purse and money,
And thee, oh, my 'Tilda!”
And in his waistcoat-pocket hid,
Then gently folded hand in hand,
And dropped asleep upon the sand.
SHE'S ALL MY FANCY PAINTED HIM
[This affecting fragment was found in MS. among the papers of the well-known author of “Was it You or I?” a tragedy, and the two popular novels, “Sister and Son,” and “The Niece's Legacy, or the Grateful Grandfather.”]
(I make no idle boast);
If he or you had lost a limb,
Which would have suffered most?
And seen me here before;
But, in another character,
She was the same of yore.
Of all that thronged the street:
So he sadly got into a 'bus,
And pattered with his feet.
(We know it to be true);
If she should push the matter on,
What would become of you?
They gave us three or more;
They all returned from him to you,
Though they were mine before.
Involved in this affair,
Exactly as we were.
(Before she had this fit)
An obstacle, that came between
Him, and ourselves, and it.
For this must ever be
A secret, kept from all the rest,
Between yourself and me.
PHOTOGRAPHY EXTRAORDINARY
The Milk-and-Water School
Yet it were rash to tear my hair;
Disfigured, I should be less fair.
Once she was lovingly inclined;
Some circumstance has changed her mind.
The Strong-Minded or Matter-of-Fact School
She might do worse, I told her so;
She was a fool to answer “No.”
Nor would I have her if I could,
For there are plenty more as good.
The Spasmodic or German School
To atoms dash the doubly dead!
My brain is fire—my heart is lead!
Scorch'd by her fierce, relentless eye,
Nothingness is my destiny!
LAYS OF MYSTERY, IMAGINATION, AND HUMOUR
Number I
THE PALACE OF HUMBUG
And each damp thing that creeps and crawls
Went wobble-wobble on the walls.
Blown on the dank, unwholesome breeze,
Awoke the never-ending sneeze.
Strange characters of woe and fear,
The humbugs of the social sphere.
That shouted empty words and big
At him that nodded in a wig.
Who wasteth childhood's happy day
In work more profitless than play.
Whose little victims sit in swarms,
And slowly sob on lower forms.
Where flowers are growing wild and rank,
Like weeds that fringe a poisoned tank.
Flood with rich Notes the tainted air,
The witless wanderer to snare.
No creature heeds the treacherous call,
For all those goodly Strawn Baits Pall.
Straightway I saw within my head
A vision of a ghostly bed,
The fictions of a lawyer's pen,
Who never more might breathe again.
Wept, inarticulate with woe:
She wept, that waited on John Doe.
With tales of tangled evidence,
Of suit, demurrer, and defence.”
For morbid fancies, such as these,
No suits can suit, no plea can please.”
She cried in grief and sudden awe,
Not inappropriately, “Law!”
He smiled, he faintly muttered “Sue!”
(Her very name was legal too.)
A hurricane went raving by,
And swept the Vision from mine eye.
(The hangings, tape; the tape was red:)
'Tis o'er, and Doe and Roe are dead!
What time it shudderingly recalls
That horrid dream of marble halls!
THE MOCK TURTLE'S SONG
Are lobsters thick as thick can be—
They love to dance with you and me,
My own, my gentle Salmon!
Chorus
Salmon, come up! Salmon, go down!Salmon, come twist your tail around!
Of all the fishes of the sea
There's none so good as Salmon!
UPON THE LONELY MOOR
(1856)
[It is always interesting to ascertain the sources from which our great poets obtained their ideas: this motive has dictated the publication of the following: painful as its appearance must be to the admirers of Wordsworth and his poem of “Resolution and Independence.”]
Upon the lonely moor:
I knew I was a gentleman,
And he was but a boor.
So I stopped and roughly questioned him,
“Come, tell me how you live!”
But his words impressed my ear no more
Than if it were a sieve.
That lie among the wheat,
And bake them into mutton-pies,
And sell them in the street.
I sell them unto men,” he said,
“Who sail on stormy seas;
And that's the way I get my bread—
A trifle, if you please.”
To multiply by ten,
And always, in the answer, get
The question back again.
I did not hear a word he said,
But kicked that old man calm,
And said, “Come, tell me how you live!”
And pinched him in the arm.
He said, “I go my ways,
And when I find a mountain-rill,
I set it in a blaze.
And thence they make a stuff they call
Rowland's Macassar Oil;
But fourpence-halfpenny is all
They give me for my toil.”
To paint one's gaiters green,
So much the colour of the grass
That they could ne'er be seen.
I gave his ear a sudden box,
And questioned him again,
And tweaked his grey and reverend locks,
And put him into pain.
Among the heather bright,
And work them into waistcoat-buttons
In the silent night.
And these I do not sell for gold,
Or coin of silver-mine,
But for a copper-halfpenny,
And that will purchase nine.
Or set limed twigs for crabs;
I sometimes search the flowery knolls
For wheels of hansom cabs.
And that's the way” (he gave a wink)
“I get my living here,
And very gladly will I drink
Your Honour's health in beer.”
Completed my design
To keep the Menai bridge from rust
By boiling it in wine.
I duly thanked him, ere I went,
For all his stories queer,
But chiefly for his kind intent
To drink my health in beer.
My fingers into glue,
Or madly squeeze a right-hand foot
Into a left-hand shoe;
Or if a statement I aver
Of which I am not sure,
I think of that strange wanderer
Upon the lonely moor.
MISS JONES
(This frolicsome verse was written for a medley of twenty-two tunes that ranged from “The Captain and His Whiskers” to “Rule Britannia.”)
Tho I specs it will work upon your feelings very strong,
For the agonising moans of Miss Arabella Jones
Were warranted to melt the hearts of any paving stones.
Simon Smith was tall and slim, and she doted upon him,
But he always called her Miss Jones—he never got so far,
As to use her Christian name—it was too familiar.
When she called him “Simon dear” he pretended not to hear,
And she told her sister Susan he behaved extremely queer,
Who said, “Very right! very right! Shews his true affection.
If you'd prove your Simon's love follow my direction.
I'd certainly advise you just to write a simple letter,
And to tell him that the cold he kindly asked about is better.
And say that by the tanyard you will wait in loving hope,
At nine o'clock this evening if he's willing to elope
With his faithful Arabella.”
So she wrote it, & signed it, & sealed it, & sent it, & dressed herself out in her holiday things.
With bracelets & brooches, & earrings, & necklace, a watch, & an eyeglass, & diamond rings,
For man is a creature weak and impressible, thinks such a deal of appearance, my dear.
So she waited for her Simon beside the tanyard gate, regardless of the pieman, who hinted it was late.
And kindly brought a light old coat to wrap around her.
She felt her cold was getting worse,
Yet still she fondly whispered, “Oh, take your time, my Simon, although I've waited long.
I do not fear my Simon dear will fail to come at last,
Although I know that long ago the time I named is past.
My Simon! My Simon! Oh, charming man! Oh, charming man!
Dear Simon Smith, sweet Simon Smith.”
Oh, there goes the church-clock, the town-clock, the station-clock and there go the other clocks, they are all striking twelve!
Oh, Simon, it is getting late, it's very dull to sit and wait.
And really I'm in such a state, I hope you'll come at any rate, quite early in the morning, quite early in the morning.
Then with prancing bays & yellow chaise, we'll away to Gretna Green.
For when I am with my Simon Smith—oh, that common name! Oh that vulgar name!
I shall never rest happy till he's changed that name, but when he has married me, maybe he'll love me to that degree, that he'll grant me my prayer
And will call himself “Clare”—
So she talked all alone, as she sat upon a stone,
Still hoping he would come and find her, and she started most unkimmon, when instead of darling “Simmon” 'twas a strange man that stood behind her,
Who civilly observed “Good evening, M'am,
I really am surprised to see that you're out here alone, for you must own from thieves you're not secure.
A watch, I see. Pray lend it me (I hope the gold is pure).
The policeman off from his beat has gone.
In the kitchen—” “Oh, you desperate villain! Oh, you treacherous thief!”
And these were the words of her anger and grief.
“When first to Simon Smith I gave my hand I never could have thought he would have acted half so mean as this,
And where's the new police? Oh, Simon, Simon! how could you treat your love so ill?”
They sit & chatter, they chatter with the cook, the guardians, so they're called, of public peace.
Through the tanyard was heard the dismal sound, “How on earth is it policemen never, never, never, can be found?”
The Complete Works of Lewis Carroll | ||