The bells rang out a triple bob: Oh, how our widow's heart did throb, As thus she heard their burden go, "Marry, mar-marry, mar-Guillot!" Bells were not then left to hang idle: A week,--and they rang for her bridal. But, woe the while, they might as well Have rung the poor dame's parting knell. The rosy dimples left her cheek, She lost her beauties plump and sleek; For Guillot oftener kicked than kissed, And backed his orders with his fist, Proving by deeds as well as words That servants make the worst of lords. She seeks the priest, her ire to wreak, And speaks as angry women speak, With tiger looks and bosom swelling, Cursing the hour she took his telling. To all, his calm reply was this,-- "I fear you've read the bells amiss: If they have lead you wrong in aught, Your wish, not they, inspired the thought. Just go, and mark well what they say." Off trudged the dame upon her way, And sure enough their chime went so,-- "Don't have that knave, that knave Guillot!" "Too true," she cried, "there's not a doubt: What could my ears have been about?" She had forgot, that, as fools think, The bell is ever sure to clink. Song of the Ennuye. I'm weary, and sick, and disgusted With Britain's mechanical din; Where I'm much too well known to be trusted, And plaguily pestered for tin; Where love has two eyes for your banker, And one chilly glance for yourself; Where souls can afford to be franker, But when they're well garnished with pelf. I'm sick of the whole race of poets, Emasculate, misty, and fine; They brew their small-beer, and don't know its Distinction from full-bodied wine. I'm sick of the prosers, that house up At drowsy St Stephen's,--ain't you? I want some strong spirits to rouse up A good revolution or two! I'm sick of a land, where each morrow Repeats the dull tale of to-day, Where you can't even find a new sorrow To chase your stale pleasures away. I'm sick of blue-stockings horrific, Steam, railroads, gas, scrip, and consols; So I'll off where the golden Pacific Round Islands of Paradise rolls. There the passions shall revel unfettered, And the heart never speak but in truth, And the intellect, wholly unlettered, Be bright with the freedom of youth! There the earth can rejoice in her blossoms, Unsullied by vapour or soot, And there chimpanzees and opossums Shall playfully pelt me with fruit. There I'll sit with my dark Orianas, In groves by the murmuring sea, And they'll give, as I suck the bananas, Their kisses, nor ask them from me. They'll never torment me for sonnets, Nor bore me to death with their own; They'll ask not for shawls nor for bonnets, For milliners there are unknown.