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POETIC TRIFLES. |
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I in my rongh and easy clothes, With my face at the sunshine's mercy;
She with her hat tipped down to her nose, And her nose tipped vice versd.
I with my rod, my reel, and my hooks, And a hamper for lunching recesses ;
She with the bait of her comely looks And the sheen of her golden tresses.
So we sat down on the sunny dyke, Where the white pond lilies teeter;
I set to fishing like quaint old Ike, And she like Simon Peter.
All the morn I lay in the light of her eyes, And dreamily watched and waited ;
But the fish were cunning and would not rise, And the baiter alone was baited.
And when the time for departure came,
The bag was as flat as a flounder ; But Bessie had neatly hooked her game— A hundred and eighty pounder.
Anon. (Attributed to John Bright
My temples throb, my pulses boil,
I'm sick of Song, and Ode, and Ballad. So, Thyrsis, take the midnight oil,
And pour it on a lobster salad. My brain is dull, my sight is foul,
I cannot write a verse, or read. Then, Pallas, take away thine Owl,
And let us have a Lark instead.
Hood. |
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