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215
FROM A GARRET.
A LONDON LYRIC.
Dear wife, the crowded, bustling street,
Scarce notes your neatness glancing by;
Scarce worth a look from those we meet,
Scarce worth a thought are you and I.
Or if wealth deigns to stoop its eyes
A moment to us, wife, be sure
It sees us only to despise,
Or pity us as sadly poor.
Scarce notes your neatness glancing by;
Scarce worth a look from those we meet,
Scarce worth a thought are you and I.
Or if wealth deigns to stoop its eyes
A moment to us, wife, be sure
It sees us only to despise,
Or pity us as sadly poor.
And are we poor? Yes, I confess
I fear the rich despise my coat.
Pride scorns, too, Kate, that cotton dress,
On which you know, Kate, how I dote.
If wealth be cash in purse or bank,
Or stocks or rents alone, I'm sure
For wealth we have not much to thank
The stars; nay, we must own we're poor.
I fear the rich despise my coat.
Pride scorns, too, Kate, that cotton dress,
On which you know, Kate, how I dote.
If wealth be cash in purse or bank,
Or stocks or rents alone, I'm sure
For wealth we have not much to thank
The stars; nay, we must own we're poor.
But are these, Kate, the only wealth?
Without them all, may we not own
Riches in youth that laughs with health,
How often to the rich unknown.
Without a shilling—forced to earn
Or do without each meal, I'm sure,
Rich in content, we've yet to learn
That in the truest wealth we're poor.
Without them all, may we not own
Riches in youth that laughs with health,
How often to the rich unknown.
Without a shilling—forced to earn
Or do without each meal, I'm sure,
Rich in content, we've yet to learn
That in the truest wealth we're poor.
What if no West-end mansion be
Our home—if quite four stories high
Our two white-curtained windows see
A landscape but of roofs and sky!
Mirth loves, I think, the upper air,
No ennui homes with us, I'm sure.
Gladness, the best of wealth, is there;
And, blest with that, O are we poor?
Our home—if quite four stories high
Our two white-curtained windows see
A landscape but of roofs and sky!
Mirth loves, I think, the upper air,
No ennui homes with us, I'm sure.
Gladness, the best of wealth, is there;
And, blest with that, O are we poor?
216
No opera-box invites the stare
Of coxcombs, Kate, your charms to see.
What matters that? you only care
To show your beauty, Kate, to me.
If 'mongst the gods we see the play,
If poor-drest balls are ours, I'm sure
Our laughs and happy hearts can say,
If mirth be wealth, we are not poor.
Of coxcombs, Kate, your charms to see.
What matters that? you only care
To show your beauty, Kate, to me.
If 'mongst the gods we see the play,
If poor-drest balls are ours, I'm sure
Our laughs and happy hearts can say,
If mirth be wealth, we are not poor.
And O, our garret, Kate, can tell,
Although its walls be somewhat bare,
That friendship loves its comfort well,
And laughter's always noisy there;
And love, who flies from state and fuss,
Makes ours his dearest home, I'm sure.
Is he not always, Kate, with us?
And, rich in love, can we be poor?
Although its walls be somewhat bare,
That friendship loves its comfort well,
And laughter's always noisy there;
And love, who flies from state and fuss,
Makes ours his dearest home, I'm sure.
Is he not always, Kate, with us?
And, rich in love, can we be poor?
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