A Dramatic Lyric.
A BACHELOR of common type,
I sit me down before the fire
And take my after-dinner pipe,
My oldest, blackest, dearest briar,
Which always seems to taste the better
If lighted with an old love-letter.
At length I feel my years discreet,
My way marked out and I can pay it,-
Ripe intellect, and temper sweet,
And suave address, although I say it :
So, with a text from Richard Crashaw,
I look around me like a Bashaw.
I’m sure that some ‘ unconscious dove ‘
Is waiting patiently for me
To call, and to declare my love
In courtly style on bended knee
To speak the word the Irish bard
Rightly denominates as ‘ hard.’
But how discover her address?
For O, how many pounds I’d give
To hear her confidential YES
Significant affirmative !
Come to my aid, ye powers mighty,
Hymen, Eros, and Aphrodite !
Yet do not choose a maid in haste ;
She might not do, if picked at random ;
What though I have a dainty taste?
De gustibus non disputandum.
Lest she deceive my expectations,
I make the following stipulations.
Firstly, I make a sweeping clearance
Of all who are blue-eyed and flaxen,
Because in personal appearance
Myself I typify the Saxon ;
And therefore I have often felt
I would prefer to wed a Celt.
(Once for a maid of Wales I sighed,
My landlord’s daughter at Portmadoc ;
But she was soon disqualified
By showing appetite for haddock :
No wife of mine shall eat that fish,
Nor serve it for my breakfast-dish.)
Next, if serene, though China fall,
And fond of exercise and air,
She need not be divinely tall,
She need not be divinely fair ;
Not mopy, languishing, or fragile,
But healthy, well-set-up, and agile.
Next, as to how her hair is done,
I don’t care much ; her taste is mine,
For diadem, or peak, or bun,
If only it be long and fine ;
But most on this her fate will hinge
Whether or not she wears a fringe.
Then she must understand my jargon,
Her answers please both mind and ear :
On accent, if it’s not too far gone,
One’s judgement should not be severe,
For everybody thinks his own
The purest accent ever known.
Thus, through long evenings after tea,
While outside Winter shows his fury,
I’ll lounge, and she will read to me
A book of verses, like the houri
Who read, unchaperoned, to Omar,
(They’re freer there than we at home are).
And, by the way, I sometimes think
That he was happiest the Persian
Who used to read and quaff and wink
Though, it is true, FitzGerald’s version
To jug and book omits to add
The fact of Omar’s ceilliad. **
Yet if I were a mild Hindoo,
Or of some negroid proletariat,
Or had a hut in Timbuctoo,
The place they ate the missionary at,
Should I say then that Omar Khayyam
Was a much happier man than I am?
No, says the true philosopher :
That is exactly what Lord Byron meant,
When he remarked that character
Depended largely on environment ;
For one man’s Jioney t’other cloys on,
And this man’s meat is that man’s poison.
Where was I? Then, in firelight glow,
I’ll hear her singing from the shadow
The fragrant songs of long ago
And little things by Mr. Hadow,
Forsaking ditties of the beau monde
To croon the Bonny Banks of Lomond.
She’ll sing My true love hath my heart ;
Of a’ the airts the wind can blow ;
Of all the girls that are so smart ;
And How should I your true-love know?
O Shakespeare, Carey, Burns, and Sidney,
If writers now were of your kidney !
POSTSCRIPT. You’ll see I said above
My spills are made of those old letters
Which on receipt I file as ‘ Love ‘ :
But whatsoever passion fetters
My inclination, years will dim it
Six is my Statutory Limit.
So, writing this, I used a spill,
A billet-doux of six years since ;
And as it flamed, I read ‘ Your J ,’
A word, half ash, that made me wince :
Her name began with J ; the rest
For obvious reasons is suppressed.
I’ve written to her old address
A charming village, served by carrier
I’ve had her confidential YES ;
And mark although I’m going to marry her
She’s not as stipulated. Still,
I’ve said I would, and now I will.
**1 The Merry Wives of Windsor, Act I, Scene 3.
(Frank Sidgwick)
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