Sweet thoughts in their essence diviner Than dreams of ambition and pelf; A cherub, no babe will be finer, Invented and nursed by herself!
One breakfasting, dining, and teaing, With appetite nought can appease, And quite a young Reasoning Being When called on to yawn and to sneeze.
What cares that heart, trusting and tender, For fame or avuncular wills; Except for the name and the gender, She is almost as tranquil as Squills.
That father, in reverie centr’d, Dumfoundered, his brain in a whirl, Heard Squills—as the creaking boots enter’d,— Announce that his Boy was—a GIRL.
ST MARK’S GOSPEL, chap. xii. verses 42, 43, 44
The widow had but only one, A puny and decrepid son; But day and night, Though fretful oft, and weak, and small, A loving child, he was her all— The widow’s mite.
The widow’s might—yes! so sustain’d She battled onward, nor complain’d Though friends were fewer: And, cheerful at her daily care, A little crutch upon the stair Was music to her.
I saw her then, and now I see, Though cheerful and resign’d, still she Has sorrow’d much: She has—HE gave it tenderly— Much faith—and carefully laid by A little crutch.
“Dans le_ bonheur_ de nos meilleurs amis nous trouvons souvent quelque chose qui ne nous plaît pas entièrement.”
She pass’d up the aisle on the arm of her sire, A delicate lady in bridal attire, Fair emblem of virgin simplicity: Half London was there, and, my word, there were few, Who stood by the altar, or hid in a pew, But envied Lord Nigel’s felicity.
O, beautiful bride, still so meek in thy splendour, So frank in thy love and its trusting surrender, Going hence thou wilt leave us the town dim! May happiness wing to thy bosom, unsought, And Nigel, esteeming his bliss as he ought, Prove worthy thy worship, confound him!
Mary in her hand has sixpence, Mary starts to fetch some butter, Mary’s pinafore is spotless, Off she goes across the gutter, Gleeful, radiant, as she thus did, Proud to be so largely trusted.
One, two, three, small steps she’s taken, Blissfully away she’s tripping, When good lack, and who’d a thought it, Down goes Mary, slipping, slipping; Daubs her clothes, the little slut—her Sixpence, too, rolls in the gutter.
Never creep back so despairing, Dry those eyes, my little Mary, All of us start off in high glee, Many come back quite “contrairy”— I’ve mourn’d sixpences in scores too, Damag’d hopes and pinafores too.