I’d another message to send her, To hungry folks most sweet, It was that the dinner was ready, And the fire was spoiling the meat. I tied it this summer’s evening To her lapdog’s bushy breast, But the canine rascal tore it, And ate it with wondrous zest. I gave it to baby next moment, And saw him climb and climb, But his little legs grew weary, And he fell in a little time. Then I yelled, in my hungry longing, Has an invalid no friend, Who will carry a wife a message Her ravenous spouse would send? Then I smelt a scent of cooking, So savory and so sweet, That my very heart stood silent, And my pulse refused to beat. It rose in enticing rushing From meats and soups and things, So I laid my anxious message On its appetising wings. Then I saw the steam rise higher, In smell more telling than speech, And I knew it would find her chamber, I knew her dear nose ’twould reach. Yes, I knew she would get my message, And I should not have to wait, So my soul grew calm and peaceful Though dinner, alas! was late. From _The Corkscrew Papers_, London: W. H. Guest, Paternoster Row, 1876. ――――:o:―――― WAPPING OLD STAIRS. Your Molly has never been false, she declares, Since the last time we parted at Wapping Old Stairs; When I swore that I still would continue the same, And gave you the ’bacco-box mark’d with my name. When I pass’d a whole fortnight between decks with you, Did I e’er give a kiss, Tom, to one of your crew? To be useful and kind to my Thomas I stay’d, For his trowsers I wash’d, and his grog, too, I made. Tho’ you promis’d last Sunday to walk in the mall, With Susan from Deptford, and likewise with Sall, In silence I stood your unkindness to hear, And only upbraided my Tom with a tear. Why should Sall or should Susan than me be more prized? For the heart that is true, Tom, should ne’er be despis’d; Then be constant and kind, nor your Molly forsake, Still your trowsers I’ll wash, and your grog too, I’ll make. ―――― THE KNIGHTLY GUERDON. Untrue to my Ulric I never could be, I vow by the saints and the blessed Marie, Since the desolate hour when we stood by the shore, And your dark galley waited to carry you o’er: My faith then I plighted, my love I confess’d, As I gave you the BATTLE-AXE marked with your crest!