To a garden full of posies Cometh one to gather flowers, And he wanders through its bowers Toying with the wanton roses, Who, uprising from their beds, Hold on high their shameless heads With their pretty lips a-pouting, Never doubting--never doubting That for Cytherean posies He would gather aught but roses. In a nest of weeds and nettles, Lay a violet, half hidden; Hoping that his glance unbidden Yet might fall upon her petals. Though she lived alone, apart, Hope lay nestling at her heart, But, alas! the cruel awaking Set her little heart a-breaking, For he gathered for his posies Only roses--only roses! [Illustration] THOMAS WINTERBOTTOM HANCE In all the towns and cities fair On Merry England's broad expanse, No swordsman ever could compare With THOMAS WINTERBOTTOM HANCE. The dauntless lad could fairly hew A silken handkerchief in twain, Divide a leg of mutton, too-- And this without unwholesome strain. On whole half-sheep, with cunning trick, His sabre sometimes he'd employ-- No bar of lead, however thick, Had terrors for the stalwart boy. At Dover daily he'd prepare To hew and slash, behind, before-- Which aggravated MONSIEUR PIERRE, Who watched him from the Calais shore. [Illustration] It caused good PIERRE to swear and dance, The sight annoyed and vexed him so; He was the bravest man in France-- He said so, and he ought to know. 'Regardez, donc, ce cochon gros-- Ce polisson! Oh, sacré bleu! Son sabre, son plomb, et ses gigots! Comme cela m'ennuye, enfin, mon Dieu! "Il sait que les foulards de soie Give no retaliating whack-- Les gigots morts n'ont pas de quoi-- Le plomb don't ever hit you back." But every day the zealous lad Cut lead and mutton more and more; And every day, poor PIERRE, half mad, Shrieked loud defiance from his shore. HANCE had a mother, poor and old, A simple, harmless village dame, Who crowed and clapped as people told Of WINTERBOTTOM'S rising fame. She said, "I'll be upon the spot To see my TOMMY'S sabre-play"; And so she left her leafy cot, And walked to Dover in a day. PIERRE had a doting mother, who Had heard of his defiant rage: _His_ ma was nearly eighty-two, And rather dressy for her age. At HANCE'S doings every morn, With sheer delight _his_ mother cried; And MONSIEUR PIERRE'S contemptuous scorn Filled _his_ mamma with proper pride. But HANCE'S powers began to fail-- His constitution was not strong-- And PIERRE, who once was stout and hale, Grew thin from shouting all day long.