He said she was his pink, his rose, His _Clarkia Grandiflora_: And swore no love had ever root Like to the love he bore her. Yet still, whenever he talk'd thus, She look at him quite gruff, And "Come now, Mister Budd," she'd say, "None of your garden stuff!" And every year, as spring came round, With flow'rs of every hue, He'd cull the fairest of them all, And carry them to Sue. But all in vain for him to bring The sweetest buds of May; For cruel Susan still turned up Her nose at his nosegay. Vainly in search of blossoms rare He wandered to and fro: She spurn'd them all; and every bloom To him was a fresh blow. And when he'd boast his pretty birds, Their songs and merry freaks, She'd say, "John Budd, I doesn't care A twopence for the beaks." The fact was this, _another_ swain Had won fair Susan's heart— The fancy-bread man, Sammy Twist— For him she felt love's smart. And still, while "Oh! 'tis love, 'tis love!" Was running in John's head, Susanna Sims would sing, "Oh! tell Me where is _fancy bread_?" No doubt it was a puzzling state To be in—that of Sue: The baker's man was very poor, John Budd was well to do. One hour she'd say, "I'll marry Sam;" Another, "No, I wont." Poor Susan Sims! Love whisper'd "_Dough_:" But Interest said "Don't." At last Sue quite made up her mind In favour of the baker; And sent him word to say that he Might come next day and take her. Away they stole at early dawn: "And now, my pretty puss," Says he, "we'll have a cab." Says she, "No; I prefers a buss." They get in one of Shillibeer's, And rode along Fleet Street, (So call'd, I am told, because in it You never _can_ go fleet,) When "Crikey! here's a pretty start! Vere _are_ you going, miss, Vith that ere married man?" sang out The tiger of the 'bus. Then Susan gave a shriek, and fell Just like a piece of lumber; And Sammy blew the tiger up, And swore he'd take his number. And then Sue open'd half an eye, And cried, in accents crack'd, "Oh, Sam! how could you guilty be Of such a marriage act?"