The gardener offer’d her a budding
She took it with a smile, and colour’d high;
While, as she gave its fragrance to her nose,
He took the opportunity to sigh.
And Hy-son’s cheek blush’d like the daylight’s close!
She glanced around to see that none were nigh,
Then sigh’d again and thought, “Although a peasant,
His manners are refined, and really pleasant.”
They stood each looking in the other’s
Till Hy-son dropp’d her gaze, and then—good lack
Love is a cunning chapman: smiles, and sighs.
And tears, the choicest treasures in his pack!
Still barters he such baubles for the prize,
Which all regret when lost, yet can’t get back—
The heart—a useful matter in a bosom—
Though some folks won’t believe it till they lose ’em.
Love can say much, yet not a word be spoken.
Straight, as a wasp careering staid to sip
The dewy rose she held, the gardener’s token,
He, seizing on her hand, with hasty grip,
The stem sway’d earthward with its blossom, broken.
The gardener raised her hand unto his lip,
And kiss’d it—when a rough voice, hoarse with halloas,
Cried, “Harkye’ fellow! I’ll permit no followers!”
* * * * *
SONGS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL.—No. 11
The lists were made—the trumpet’s
Rang pealing through the air.
My ’squire made lace and rivet fast
And brought my tried destrerre.
I rode where sat fair Isidore
Inez Mathilde Borghese;
From spur to crest she scann’d me o’er,
Then said “He’s not the cheese!”
O, Mary mother! how burn’d my cheek!
I proudly rode away;
And vow’d “Woe’s his I who dares to break
A lance with me to-day!”
I won the prize! (Revenge is sweet,
I thought me of a ruse;)
I laid it at her rival’s feet,
And thus I cook’d her goose.
* * * * *
What difference is there between a farrier and Dr. Locock?—Because the one is a horse-shoer, and the other is a-cow-shoer. (accoucheur).
Why is the Prince of Wales Duke of Cornwall?—Because he is a minor.
“Bar that,” as the Sheriff’s Officer said to his first-floor window.
* * * * *