I have not any grief profound, Or secrets to confess, My story would not fetch a pound For A. K. Newman’s press; Instead of looking thin and pale, I’m growing red and fat, As if I lived on beef and ale-- There’s no Romance in that!
It’s very hard, by land or sea Some strange event I court, But nothing ever comes to me That’s worth a pen’s report: It really made my temper chafe, Each coast that I was at, I vow’d, and rail’d, and came home safe,-- There’s no Romance in that!
The only time I had a chance At Brighton one fine day, My chestnut mare began to prance, Took fright, and ran away; Alas! no Captain of the Tenth To stop my steed came pat; A Butcher caught the rein at length,-- There’s no Romance in that!
Love--even love--goes smoothly on A railway sort of track-- No flinty sire, no jealous Don! No hearts upon the rack; No Polydore, no Theodore-- His ugly name is Mat, Plain Matthew Pratt and nothing more-- There’s no Romance in that!
He is not dark, he is not tall,-- His forehead’s rather low, He is not pensive--not at all, But smiles his teeth to show; He comes from Wales and yet in size Is really but a sprat; With sandy hair and grayish eyes-- There’s no Romance in that!
He wears no plumes or Spanish cloaks Or long sword hanging down; He dresses much like other folks, And commonly in brown; His collar he will not discard, Or give up his cravat, Lord Byron-like--he’s not a Bard-- There’s no Romance in that!
He’s rather bald, his sight is weak, He’s deaf in either drum; Without a lisp he cannot speak, But then--he’s worth a plum. He talks of stocks and three per cents. By way of private chat, Of Spanish Bonds, and shares, and rentes,-- There’s no Romance in that!
I sing--no matter what I sing, Di Tanti--or Crudel, Tom Bowling, or God save the King Di piacer--All’s well; He knows no more about a voice For singing than a gnat-- And as to Music “has no choice,”-- There’s no Romance in that!
Of light guitar I cannot boast, He never serenades; He writes, and sends it by the post, He doesn’t bribe the maids: No stealth, no hempen ladder--no! He comes with loud rat-tat, That startles half of Bedford Row-- There’s no Romance in that!
He comes at nine in time to choose His coffee--just two cups, And talks with Pa about the news, Repeats debates, and sups. John helps him with his coat aright, And Jenkins hands his hat; My lover bows, and says good-night-- There’s no Romance in that!