O, HOW she pouts o'er _Bradshaw's Guide_, This dainty little two weeks' bride! Pray has she found, on reaching Dover, Her lot no longer cast in clover? Do honeymooning moments drag, Or has she lost her dressing bag?
Or does she grieve for kith and kin? Or has she lost her _Bound to Win_? Or does she find her golden fetter Now binds her more to worse than better? Or has she lost her left-hand glove? Or does she mourn a bygone love?
Perhaps she wants a cup of tea, Or very much dislikes the sea; And views with greatest dread and sorrow The crossing over on the morrow! Or thinks it much too long to wait For dinner until half-past eight!
Perhaps she cannot find her keys, Perhaps she's difficult to please:-- I know not which, but it is fearful To see those pretty eyes so tearful! Her face--it cannot be denied-- Too sad is for a two weeks' bride!
THE way was long, the sun was high, The Minstrel was fatigued and dry! From Wargrave he came walking down, In hope to soon reach Henley town; And at the "Lion" find repast, To slake his thirst and break his fast. Alas! there's neither punt or wherry To take him over Bolney Ferry!
He gazes to the left and right-- No craft is anywhere in sight, Except the horse-boat he espied Secure upon the other side; No skiff he finds to stem the swirl, No ferryman, nor boy, nor girl! He sits and sings there "Hey down derry!" But can't get over Bolney Ferry!
No ferry-girl? Indeed I'm wrong, For she--the subject of my song-- So dainty, dimpled, young, and fair, Is coolly sketching over there. She gazes, stops, then seems to guess The reason of the Bard's distress. A brindled bull-dog she calls "Jerry," Comes with her over Bolney Ferry!
She pulls, and then she pulls again, With shapely hands, the rusty chain; She smiles, and, with a softened frown, She bids her faithful dog lie down. As she approaches near the shore She shows her dimples more and more. Her short white teeth, lips like a cherry Unpouting show, at Bolney Ferry!
With joy he steps aboard the boat, The Rhymer's rescued and afloat! She chirps and chatters, and the twain Together pull the rusty chain: He sighs to think each quaint clink-clank But brings him nearer to the bank! His heart is sad, her laugh is merry, And so they part at Bolney Ferry!