While the pastry-cook plant cherry-brandy will grant—apple puffs, and three-corners, and banberries— The shares are a penny, and ever so many are taken by ROTHSCHILD and BARING, And just as a few are allotted to you, you awake with a shudder despairing— You’re a regular wreck, with a crick in your neck, and no wonder you snore, for your head’s on the floor, and you’ve needles and pins from your soles to your shins, and your flesh is a-creep, for your left leg’s asleep, and you’ve cramp in your toes, and a fly on your nose, and some fluff in your lung, and a feverish tongue, and a thirst that’s intense, and a general sense that you haven’t been sleeping in clover; But the darkness has passed, and it’s daylight at last, and the night has been long—ditto, ditto my song—and thank goodness they’re both of them over! DON’T FORGET! NOW, Marco, dear, My wishes hear: While you’re away It’s understood You will be good, And not too gay. To every trace Of maiden grace You will be blind, And will not glance By any chance On womankind! If you are wise, You’ll shut your eyes Till we arrive, And not address A lady less Than forty-five; You’ll please to frown On every gown That you may see; And O, my pet, You won’t forget You’ve married me! O, my darling, O, my pet, Whatever else you may forget, In yonder isle beyond the sea, O, don’t forget you’ve married me! You’ll lay your head Upon your bed At set of sun. You will not sing Of anything To any one: You’ll sit and mope All day, I hope, And shed a tear Upon the life Your little wife Is passing here! And if so be You think of me, Please tell the moon; I’ll read it all In rays that fall On the lagoon: You’ll be so kind As tell the wind How you may be, And send me words By little birds To comfort me! And O, my darling, O, my pet, Whatever else you may forget, In yonder isle beyond the sea, O, don’t forget you’ve married me! THE SUICIDE’S GRAVE ON a tree by a river a little tomtit Sang “Willow, titwillow, titwillow!” And I said to him, “Dicky-bird, why do you sit Singing ‘Willow, titwillow, titwillow’? Is it weakness of intellect, birdie?” I cried, “Or a rather tough worm in your little inside?” With a shake of his poor little head he replied, “Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!” He slapped at his chest, as he sat on that bough, Singing “Willow, titwillow, titwillow!” And a cold perspiration bespangled his brow, Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow! He sobbed and he sighed, and a gurgle he gave, Then he threw himself into the billowy wave, And an echo arose from the suicide’s grave— “Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!”