Parodies of the works of English & American authors, vol. IV

Parodies

A HASKETT SMITH, Oxford.

                     ――――

              “IN THE GLOAMING.”
  (Dedicated to the Ladies of the Studio, South Kensington.)

      In the gloaming, O my darlings,
        When our hearts are sinking low,
      When our mouths are wide with yawning,
        And our backs are aching so;
      When the thought of painting longer
        Fills us with an untold woe;
      How we think of tea, and love it,
        While the shadows deeper grow!

      In the gloaming, O my darlings,
        We think tenderly of tea,
      Till our hearts are crushed with longing
        Round our steaming cups to be.
      (It is only _green_ in mem’ry,
        And at times――’twixt you and me――
      A malignant grocer sends us
        An inferior bohea.)

      In the gloaming, O my darlings,
        When our hearts are sinking low,
      When our mouths are wide with yawning,
        And our backs are aching so;
      Will the tea be weak? we wonder
        (What has been, again may be);
      But perhaps ’tis best for us, dears――
        Best for you and best for me.

                               HELEN MARION BURNSIDE.
  _The Girls’ Own Paper._ February 23, 1884.

                     ――――

               THE OLD ARM CHAIR.

      I love it, I love it! and who shall dare
      To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?
      I’ve treasured it long as a sainted prize,
      I’ve bedew’d it with tears, I’ve embalm’d it with sighs,
      ’Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart;
      Not a tie will break, not a link will start;
      Would you know the spell?――a mother sat there!
      And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.

             *     *     *     *     *

                                            ELIZA COOK
                     ――――

               MY OLD ARM CHAIR.

      I loathe it, I loathe it! and who shall dare
      To chide me for loathing my own arm-chair?
      It haunts me daily, and wheels its flight
      Into the dreams that I dream by night.
      When I look at its cover of outworn chintz,
      Where age and washing have blurred the tints,
      No earthly passion can well compare
      With my deadly hate for that old arm-chair.

      I loved with a love of the noblest kind;――
      Sensitive, delicate, most refined.
      But she spurned my love and betrayed her vow,
      And is only a Mrs. McKenzie now.
      I cannot forget, though I might forgive;
      My wrongs will follow me whilst I live.
      But this is the memory worst to bear;――
      She once took tea in that old arm-chair.

      I owned a creditor――(frightful man!)
      Who bored me as creditors only can.
      He vaguely talked of a small amount
      Which took the shape of an old account,
      Twice in the week, I remember well,
      He banged my knocker or twanged my bell.
      If he found me without any cash to spare,
      He called me names from that old arm-chair.

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

Parodies of the works of English & American authors, vol. IV

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