Now the “rosy morn appearing” Floods with light the dazzled heaven; And the schoolboy groans on hearing That eternal clock strike seven: -
Now the waggoner is driving Towards the fields his clattering wain; Now the bluebottle, reviving, Buzzes down his native pane.
But to me the morn is hateful: Wearily I stretch my legs, Dress, and settle to my plateful Of ( perhaps inferior ) eggs.
Yesterday Miss Crump, by message, Mentioned “rent,” which “p'raps I'd pay;” And I have a dismal presage That she'll call, herself, to-day.
Once, I breakfasted off rosewood, Smoked through silver-mounted pipes - Then how my patrician nose would Turn up at the thought of “swipes!”
Ale,— occasionally claret, - Graced my luncheon then: - and now I drink porter in a garret, To be paid for heaven knows how.
When the evening shades are deepened, And I doff my hat and gloves, No sweet bird is there to “cheep and Twitter twenty million loves:”
No dark-ringleted canaries Sing to me of “hungry foam;” No imaginary “Marys” Call fictitious “cattle home.”
Araminta, sweetest, fairest! Solace once of every ill! How I wonder if thou bearest Mivins in remembrance still!
If that Friday night is banished Yet from that retentive mind, When the others somehow vanished, And we two were left behind: -
When in accents low, yet thrilling, I did all my love declare; Mentioned that I'd not a shilling - Hinted that we need not care:
And complacently you listened To my somewhat long address - ( Listening, at the same time, is n't Quite the same as saying Yes ).
Once, a happy child, I carolled O'er green lawns the whole day through, Not unpleasingly apparelled In a tightish suit of blue: -
What a change has now passed o'er me! Now with what dismay I see Every rising morn before me! Goodness gracious, patience me!
And I'll prowl, a moodier Lara, Through the world, as prowls the bat, And habitually wear a Cypress wreath around my hat:
And when Death snuffs out the taper Of my Life, ( as soon he must ), I'll send up to every paper, “Died, T. Mivins; of disgust.”
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