I cannot read or write, or thoughts relax-- Of what avail Lord Althorp or Earl Grey? They cannot ease me of _my_ window-tax Over the way! Even on Sunday my devotions vary, And from St. Bennet Fink they go astray To dear St. Mary Overy--the Mary Over the way! Oh! if my godmother were but a fairy, With magic wand, how I would beg and pray That she would change me into that canary Over the way! I envy everything that’s near Miss Lindo, A pug, a poll, a squirrel or a jay-- Blest blue-bottles! that buzz about the window Over the way! Even at even, for there be no shutters, I see her reading on from grave to gay, Some tale or poem, till the candle gutters Over the way! And then--oh! then--while the clear waxen taper Emits, two stories high, a starlike ray, I see twelve auburn curls put into paper Over the way! But how breathe unto her my deep regards, Or ask her for a whispered ay or nay,-- Or offer her my hand, some thirty yards Over the way! Cold as the pole she is to my adoring;-- Like Captain Lyon, at Repulse’s Bay, I meet an icy end to my exploring Over the way! Each dirty little Savoyard that dances She looks on--Punch--chimney sweeps in May. Zounds! wherefore cannot I attract her glances Over the way? Half out she leans to watch a tumbling brat, Or yelping cur, run over by a dray; But I’m in love--she never pities that! Over the way! I go to the same church--a love-lost labour; Haunt all her walks, and dodge her at the play; She does not seem to know she has a neighbour Over the way! At private theatres she never acts; No Crown-and-Anchor balls her fancy sway; She never visits gentlemen with tracts Over the way! To billets-doux by post she shows no favour-- In short, there is no plot that I can lay To break my window-pains to my enslaver Over the way! I play the flute--she heeds not my chromatics-- No friend an introduction can purvey; I wish a fire would break out in the attics Over the way! My wasted form ought of itself to touch her; My baker feels my appetite decay; And as for butchers’ meat--oh! she’s my butcher Over the way! At beef I turn; at lamb or veal I pout; I never ring now to bring up the tray; My stomach grumbles at my dining out Over the way! I’m weary of my life; without regret I could resign this miserable clay To lie within that box of mignonette Over the way!