Then like a volcano puffing, Smoked he out his pipe; Sighed and supped on ducks and stuffing, Ham and kraut and tripe; Went to bed, and, in the morning, Waited as before, Still his eyes in anguish turning To the baker's door; Till, with apron white and mealy, Came the lovely dame, Counting out the loaves so freely, Selling of the same. So one day--the fact's amazing!-- On his post he died! And they found the body gazing At the baker's bride. Night and Morning. [NOT BY SIR E. BULWER LYTTON.] "Thy coffee, Tom, 's untasted, And thy egg is very cold; Thy cheeks are wan and wasted, Not rosy as of old. My boy, what has come o'er ye? You surely are not well! Try some of that ham before ye, And then, Tom, ring the bell!" "I cannot eat, my mother, My tongue is parched and bound, And my head, somehow or other, Is swimming round and round. In my eyes there is a fulness, And my pulse is beating quick; On my brain is a weight of dulness: Oh, mother, I am sick!" "These long, long nights of watching Are killing you outright; The evening dews are catching, And you're out every night. Why does that horrid grumbler, Old Inkpen, work you so?" (TOM--_lene susurrans_) "My head! Oh, that tenth tumbler! 'Twas that which wrought my woe!" The Biter Bit. The sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing fair, And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air; The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea, And happiness is everywhere, oh mother, but with me! They are going to the church, mother,--I hear the marriage-bell; It booms along the upland,--oh! it haunts me like a knell; He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering step, And closely to his side she clings,--she does, the demirep! They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft have stood, The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the wood; And the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words that won my ear, Wave their silver blossoms o'er him, as he leads his bridal fere. He will pass beside the stream, mother, where first my hand he pressed, By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his passion he confessed; And down the hedgerows where we've strayed again and yet again; But he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted Jane! He said that I was proud, mother,--that I looked for rank and gold; He said I did not love him,--he said my words were cold; He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher game,-- And it may be that I did, mother; but who hasn't done the same? I did not know my heart, mother,--I know it now too late; I thought that I without a pang could wed some nobler mate; But no nobler suitor sought me,--and he has taken wing, And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted thing.