But, oh! no trains—no dental pains— Believe me when I say, MATILDA, No corns that shoot—no pinching boot Upon a summer day, MATILDA— It’s my belief, could cause such grief As that I’ve suffered for, MATILDA, My having shot in vital spot Your old progenitor, MATILDA. Bethink you how I’ve kept the vow I made one winter day, MATILDA— That, come what could, I never would Remain too long away, MATILDA. And, oh! the crimes with which, at times, I’ve charged my gentle mind, MATILDA, To keep the vow I made—and now You treat me so unkind, MATILDA! For when at sea, off Caribbee, I felt my passion burn, MATILDA, By passion egged, I went and begged The captain to return, MATILDA. And when, my pet, I couldn’t get That captain to agree, MATILDA, Right through a sort of open port I pitched him in the sea, MATILDA! Remember, too, how all the crew With indignation blind, MATILDA, Distinctly swore they ne’er before Had thought me so unkind, MATILDA. And how they’d shun me one by one— An unforgiving group, MATILDA— I stopped their howls and sulky scowls By pizening their soup, MATILDA! So pause to think, before you drink The dregs of Lethe’s cup, MATILDA; Remember, do, what I’ve gone through, Before you give me up, MATILDA. Recall again the mental pain Of what I’ve had to do, MATILDA, And be assured that I’ve endured It, all along of you, MATILDA! THE REVEREND SIMON MAGUS A RICH advowson, highly prized, For private sale was advertised; And many a parson made a bid; The REVEREND SIMON MAGUS did. He sought the agent’s: “Agent, I Have come prepared at once to buy (If your demand is not too big) The Cure of Otium-cum-Digge.” “Ah!” said the agent, “_there’s_ a berth— The snuggest vicarage on earth; No sort of duty (so I hear), And fifteen hundred pounds a year! “If on the price we should agree, The living soon will vacant be; The good incumbent’s ninety five, And cannot very long survive. “See—here’s his photograph—you see, He’s in his dotage.” “Ah, dear me! Poor soul!” said SIMON. “His decease Would be a merciful release!” The agent laughed—the agent blinked— The agent blew his nose and winked— And poked the parson’s ribs in play— It was that agent’s vulgar way. The REVEREND SIMON frowned: “I grieve This light demeanour to perceive; It’s scarcely _comme il faut_, I think: Now—pray oblige me—do not wink. “Don’t dig my waistcoat into holes— Your mission is to sell the souls Of human sheep and human kids To that divine who highest bids. “Do well in this, and on your head Unnumbered honours will be shed.” The agent said, “Well, truth to tell, I _have_ been doing very well.”