The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 27

I have no cash, I lie in p.a.w.n, A stranger in the town of Lille.

II.

To stealing I can never come, To p.a.w.n my watch I'm too genteel, Besides, I left my watch at home; How could I p.a.w.n it, then, at Lille?

"La note," at times the guests will say, I turn as white as cold boiled veal: I turn and look another way, _I_ dare not ask the bill at Lille.

I dare not to the landlord say, "Good sir, I can not pay your bill:"

He thinks I am a Lord Anglais, And is quite proud I stay at Lille.

He thinks I am a Lord Anglais, Like Rothschild or Sir Robert Peel, And so he serves me every day The best of meat and drink in Lille.

Yet when he looks me in the face I blush as red as cochincal; And think did he but know my case, How changed he'd be, my host of Lille.

My heart is weary, my peace is gone.

How shall I e'er my woes reveal?

I have no money, I lie in p.a.w.n, A stranger in the town of Lille.

III.

The sun bursts out in furious blaze, I perspirate from head to heel; I'd like to hire a one-horse chaise; How can I, without cash, at Lille?

I pa.s.s in sunshine burning hot By cafes where in beer they deal; I think how pleasant were a pot, A frothing pot of beer of Lille!

What is yon house with walls so thick, All girt around with guard and grille?

O, gracious G.o.ds, it makes me sick, It is the PRISON-HOUSE of Lille!

O cursed prison strong and barred, It does my very blood congeal!

I tremble as I pa.s.s the guard, And quit that ugly part of Lille.

The church-door beggar whines and prays, I turn away at his appeal: Ah, church-door beggar! go thy ways!

You're not the poorest man in Lille.

My heart is weary, my peace is gone, How shall I e'er my woes reveal?

I have no money, I lie in p.a.w.n, A stranger in the town of Lille.

IV.

Say, shall I to yon Flemish church, And at a Popish altar kneel?

O do not leave me in the lurch,-- I'll cry ye patron-saints of Lille!

Ye virgins dressed in satin hoops, Ye martyrs slain for mortal weal, Look kindly down! before you stoops The miserablest man in Lille.

And lo! as I beheld with awe A pictured saint (I swear 'tis real) It smiled, and turned to grandmamma!-- It did! and I had hope in Lille!

'T was five o'clock, and I could eat, Although I could not pay, my meal; I hasten back into the street Where lies my inn, the best in Lille.

What see I on my table stand,-- A letter with a well-known seal?

'Tis grandmamma's! I know her hand,-- "To Mr. M. A. t.i.tmarsh, Lille."

I feel a choking in my throat, I pant and stagger, faint and reel!

It is--it is--a ten pound note, And I'm no more in p.a.w.n at Lille!

[He goes off by the diligence that evening, and is restored to the bosom of his happy family.]

SHADOWS Lantern

DEEP! I own I start at shadows, Listen, I will tell you why; (Life itself is but a taper, Casting shadows till we die.)

Once, in Italy, at Florence, I a radiant girl adored: When she came, she saw, she conquered, And by Cupid I was floored.

Round my heart her glossy ringlets Were mysteriously entwined-- And her soft voluptuous glances All my inmost thoughts divined.

"Mia cara Mandolina!

Are we not, indeed," I cried, "All the world to one another?"

Mandolina, smiled and sighed.

Earth was Eden, she an angel, I a Jupiter enshrined-- Till one night I saw a d.a.m.ning DOUBLE SHADOW ON HER BLIND!

"Fire and fury! double shadows On their bed-room windows ne'er, To my knowledge, have been cast by Ladies virtuous and fair.

"False, abandoned, Mandolina!

Fare thee well, for evermore!

Vengeance!" shrieked I, "vengeance! vengeance!"

And I thundered through the door.

This event occurred next morning; Mandolina staring sat, Stark amaz'd, as out I tumbled, Raving mad, without a hat!

Six weeks after I'd a letter, On its road six weeks delayed-- With a dozen re-directions From the lost one, and it said:

"Foolish, wicked, cruel Albert!

Base suspicion's doubts resign; DOUBLE LIGHTS THROW DOUBLE SHADOWS!

Mandolina--ever thine."

"Heavens, what an a.s.s!" I muttered, "Not before to think of that!"-- And again I rushed excited To the rail, without a hat.

"Mandolina! Mandolina!"

When her house I reached, I cried: "Pardon, dearest love!" she answered-- "I'm the Russian Consul's bride!"

Thus, by Muscovite barbarian, And by Fate, my life was crossed; Wonder ye I start at shadows?

Types of Mandolina lost.

THE RETORT GEORGE P. MORRIS

Old Nick, who taught the village school, Wedded a maid of homespun habit; He was stubborn as a mule, She was playful as a rabbit.