Mine blood run cold zat mornings, und I felt somedings here, Vos in my throat come choking, und on my cheek ze tear, Vor O I vould not lose her, ze glory on me now, Zat I vos hope to bless me, mit Cosette vor mine Frau. I marched avay to Paris, vere all around vos dire, Mit shmoke, und blood, und thunder, und fret, und woe und fire! Und ven ze siege vos over, mit thrumpet und mit dhrum, Vonce more again thro' Lorraine, ze Sherman bands did come. I vent to find ze sveetheart, but grass vos on ze slain, Ze cruel Var had murdered ze Fraulein of Lorraine!-- Shust vere mine heart is beating, I keep ze treasure zare, Mit mine own blood upon it, von braid of golden hair, Und all dried up und vithered, und gone to dust again, Von flower zat vonce vos jewelled ze grave zats in Lorraine. Ah vot is deed of glory, ven blood is on ze vings Of love, zat makes ze heaven on earth, und vot are kings? Auch! I vill have no patience. Strike up ze Band again, Or I grow mad mit dhreamings, vot happened in Lorraine! Vings zerring zanzaraza, ve cooms from o'er ze sea, Ve plays ze lovely music, of all ze great countree. Ve all of us have romance of life so bigs to say, Vings zerring zanzaraza, ze vile ze band vill play. [Illustration: OUT OF PLUMB.] I LAID out pounds, and pounds, In entertainment rounds, And worked a score of credit pretty thick, For I heard she had a plumb, So invited her to come, To the altar at shortest notice quick, When I asked her for my plumb, She was all but deaf and dumb, I found that I was married thro' a trick, To have lifted off the shelf, A maiden without pelf, Was unbusiness-like, I felt it was a stick, Of the candle, all I had was but the wick, A moody retrospection, makes me sick! [Illustration: A Ward in the Chancerie] He WAS a cabman grey I feck, All weird and wry to see; His face was ribbed like the turtle's neck, His nose like the strawberrie. If you think he was old, to you I say, Your thought obscures the truth-- Despite the years that had passed away, He was still in his second youth. "Ha! ha!" quoth he, "how fair she looks," One morn, as he did see, A maiden sweet with her school-books, A ward in the Chancerie. "How fair she looks!" quoth he, and put A load in his old black clay, And he didn't care if he hadn't a fare, The whole of the live-long day. [Illustration] That night he looketh into the glass, With his nose like a strawberrie, "I know they'll say I'm a bloomin' goose But fate is fate you see." And he looketh into the glass once more, Where yet was another drain. Quoth he, "I've wedded three before," "The fourth I'll wed again."