Alas! things are not half so fair As four short years ago-- The clouds are gathering everywhere And boisterous breezes blow; My wilted whiskers indicate The depth of my disgrace-- Would I were back, enthroned in state, At 12 St. Helen's place! The saddest words, as I'll allow, That drop from tongue or pen, Are these sad words I utter now: "They can't, shan't, won't have Ben!" So, with my whiskers in my hands, My journey I'll retrace, To wreak revenge on foreign lands At 12 St. Helen's place. CLENDENIN'S LAMENT. While bridal knots are being tied And bridal meats are being basted, I shiver in the cold outside And pine for joys I've never tasted. Oh, what's a nomination worth, When you have labored months to get it If, all at once, with heartless mirth, The cruel senator's upset it? Fate weaves me such a toilsome way, My modest wisdom may not ken it-- But, all the same, a plague I say Upon that stingy, hostile senate! ON THE WEDDING OF G. C. (June 2, 1886.) Oh, hand me down my spike tail coat And reef my waistband in, And tie this necktie round my throat And fix my bosom pin; I feel so weak and flustered like, I don't know what I say-- For I am to be wedded to-day, Dan'l, I'm to be wedded to-day! Put double sentries at the doors And pull the curtains down, And tell the democratic bores That I am out of town; It's funny folks haint decency Enough to stay away, When I'm to be wedded to-day, Dan'l, I'm to be wedded to-day! The bride, you say, is calm and cool In satin robes of white-- Well, _I_ am stolid, as a rule, But now I'm flustered quite; Upon a surging sea of bliss My soul is borne away, For I'm to be wedded to-day, Dan'l, I'm to be wedded to-day! TO G. C. (July 12, 1886.) They say our president has stuck Above his good wife's door The sign provocative of luck-- A horseshoe--nothing more. Be hushed, O party hates, the while That emblem lingers there, And thou, dear fates, propitious smile Upon the wedded pair. I've tried the horseshoe's weird intent And felt its potent joy-- God bless you, Mr. President, And may it be a boy. TO DR. F. W. R. If I were rich enough to buy A case of wine (though I abhor it), I'd send a quart of extra dry And willingly get trusted for it. But, lackaday! _You_ know that I'm As poor as Job's historic turkey-- In lieu of Mumm, accept this rhyme, An honest gift though somewhat jerky. This is your silver wedding day-- You didn't mean to let me know it! And yet your smiles and raiments gay Beyond all peradventure show it! By all you say and do it's clear A birdling in your heart is singing, And everywhere you go you hear The old-time bridal bells a-ringing.