I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honouring thee, As giving it a hope, that there It would not wither’d be, But thou thereon did’st only breathe, And sent it back to me; Since then, it grows and smells, I swear, Not of itself, but thee. ―――― A PARODY. Drink to me only from a jug, And I will pledge in mine; So fill my glass with whisky punch, And I’ll not look for wine. The thirst that in my throat doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove’s nectar sip, That honour I’d resign. * * * * * (The Editor felicitously adds that the second verse is not worth parodying.) _Blackwood’s Magazine._ July, 1823. ―――― TO LYDIA’S GLASS EYE. “From particulars supplied to the reporter of a Chicago paper by a dealer in glass eyes in that city, it appears that there are as many as a thousand wearers of these eyes in Chicago…. Twenty years ago there were sold many more dark eyes than light … about twenty light eyes are now sold to one dark.”――_Times._ Wink at me only with glass eye, And I’ll respond with mine, And smile not when the harmless fly Goes crawling over thine. I care not for the colour there, Dark brown, or black, or blue, Or even if you wink, _ma chère_, With eyes of different hue. I sent thee late a new glass eye, Impervious to the tear, Tinged with some new æsthetic dye, And quite “too utter” dear. You’ll wear it, won’t you, when you think How faithful it must be, For it is warranted to wink At nobody but me? _Punch._ April, 1881. ―――― Bring to me only, if you’re wise, The ale that’s clear and fine; Place but a quart within the cup, I’ll call that quart divine. ―――― DRINKING SONGS FOR THE MEN OF THE PERIOD. “What can you expect from a nation that lives chiefly upon tonics.”――Vide _Saturday Review_. 1866. 1. Drink wine only with thy Drugs And I will drink with mine,―― Or leave a “peg” within the cup, And I’ll not seek Quinine! 2. O some may praise John Barleycorn, And some the juice of Cadiz, But I will sing of Chlorodyne, That keeps me out of Hades. 3. Boast not thyself in Sherries gold, Or Claret’s crimson river, There’s nothing like Taraxacum To spur a sluggish liver! 4. Ah hapless youth, life’s honey-sweets Too deeply you beguile! Soon must you quaff its bitter cup, Quassia and Camomile!