Chapter XIII: Part IV (7)

She was the daughter of a dean,
Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic;
She had one brother just thirteen.
Whose color was extremely hectic;
Her grandmother, for many a year,
Had fed the parish with her bounty;
Her second cousin was a peer,
And lord-lieutenant of the county.

But titles and the three per cents,
And mortgages, and great relations,
And India bonds, and tithes and rents,
Oh! what are they to love's sensations?
Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks,
Such wealth, such honors, Cupid chooses;
He cares as little for the stocks,
As Baron Rothschild for the muses.

She sketch'd; the vale, the wood, the beach,
Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading;
She botanized; I envied each
Young blossom in her boudoir fading;
She warbled Handel; it was grand--
She made the Catalina jealous;
She touch'd the organ; I could stand
For hours and hours and blow the bellows.

She kept an album, too, at home,
Well fill'd with all an album's glories;
Paintings of butterflies and Rome,
Patterns for trimming, Persian stories;
Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo,
Fierce odes to famine and to slaughter;
And autographs of Prince Laboo,
And recipes of elder water.

And she was flatter'd, worship'd, bored,
Her steps were watch'd, her dress was noted,
Her poodle dog was quite adored,
Her sayings were extremely quoted.
She laugh'd, and every heart was glad,
As if the taxes were abolish'd;
She frown'd, and every look was sad,
As if the opera were demolishd.

She smil'd on many just for fun--
I knew that there was nothing in it;
I was the first the only one
Her heart thought of for a minute;
I knew it, for she told me so,
In phrase which was divinely molded;
She wrote a charming hand, and oh!
How sweetly all her notes were folded!

Our love was like most other loves--
A little glow, a little shiver;
A rosebud and a pair of gloves,
And "Fly Not Yet," upon the river;
Some jealousy of some one's heir,
Some hopes of dying broken-hearted,
A miniature, a lock of hair,
The usual vows--and then we parted.

We parted--months and years roll'd by;
We met again for summers after;
Our parting was all sob and sigh--
Our meeting was all mirth and laughter;
For in my heart's most secret cell,
There had been many other lodgers;
And she was not the ball-room belle,
But only Mrs.--Something--Rogers.

SORROWS OF WERTHER.
W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

Werther had a love for Charlotte
Such as words could never utter;
Would you know how first he met her?
She was cutting bread and butter.

Charlotte was a married lady,
And a moral man was Werther,
And for all the wealth of Indies,
Would do nothing for to hurt her.

So he sighed and pined and ogled,
And his passion boiled and bubbled.
Till he blew his silly brains out,
And no more was by it troubled.

Charlotte, having seen his body
Borne before her on a shutter,
Like a well-conducted person,
Went on cutting bread and butter.

THE YANKEE VOLUNTEERS.
W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

["A surgeon of the United States army says, that on inquiring of the Captain of his company, he found THAT NINE-TENTHS of the men had enlisted on account of some female difficulty."]--Morning Paper.

Ye Yankee volunteers! It makes my bosom bleed When I your story read, Though oft 'tis told one. So--in both hemispheres The woman are untrue, And cruel in the New, As in the Old one!

What--in this company Of sixty sons of Mars, Who march 'neath Stripes and Stars, With fife and horn, Nine tenths of all we see Along the warlike line Had but one cause to join This Hope Folorn?

Deserters from the realm Where tyrant Venus reigns, You slipped her wicked chains, Fled and out-ran her. And now, with sword and helm, Together banded are Beneath the Stripe and Star- embroidered banner!

And so it is with all The warriors ranged in line, With lace bedizened fine And swords gold-hilted-- Yon lusty corporal, Yon color-man who gripes The flag of Stars and Stripes-- Has each been jilted?

Come, each man of this line, The privates strong and tall, "The pioneers and all," The fifer nimble-- Lieutenant and Ensign, Captain with epaulets, And Blacky there, who beats The clanging cymbal--

O cymbal-beating black, Tell us, as thou canst feel, Was it some Lucy Neal Who caused thy ruin? O nimble fifing Jack, And drummer making din So deftly on the skin, With thy rat-tattooing.

Confess, ye volunteers, Lieutenant and Ensign, And Captain of the line, As bold as Roman-- Confess, ye grenadiers, However strong and tall, The Conqueror of you all Is Woman, Woman!

No corselet is so proof, But through it from her bow, The shafts that she can throw Will pierce and rankle. No champion e'er so tough, But's in the struggle thrown, And tripped and trodden down By her slim ankle.

Thus, always it has ruled, And when a woman smiled, The strong man was a child, The sage a noodle. Alcides was befooled, And silly Samson shorn, Long, long ere you were born, Poor Yankee Doodle!

COURTSHIP AND MATRIMONY. A POEM, IN TWO CANTOS. PUNCH.