And such was he. A calm-browed lad, Yet mad, at moments, as a hatter: Why hatters as a race are mad I never knew, nor does it matter. He was what nurses call a ‘limb;’ One of those small misguided creatures, Who, though their intellects are dim, Are one too many for their teachers: And, if you asked of him to say What twice 10 was, or 3 times 7, He’d glance (in quite a placid way) From heaven to earth, from earth to heaven: And smile, and look politely round, To catch a casual suggestion; But make no effort to propound Any solution of the question. And so not much esteemed was he Of the authorities: and therefore He fraternized by chance with me, Needing a somebody to care for: And three fair summers did we twain Live (as they say) and love together; And bore by turns the wholesome cane Till our young skins became as leather: And carved our names on every desk, And tore our clothes, and inked our collars; And looked unique and picturesque, But not, it may be, model scholars. We did much as we chose to do; We’d never heard of Mrs. Grundy; All the theology we knew Was that we mightn’t play on Sunday; And all the general truths, that cakes Were to be bought at four a-penny, And that excruciating aches Resulted if we ate too many: And seeing ignorance is bliss, And wisdom consequently folly, The obvious result is this— That our two lives were very jolly. At last the separation came. Real love, at that time, was the fashion; And by a horrid chance, the same Young thing was, to us both, a passion. Old POSER snorted like a horse: His feet were large, his hands were pimply, His manner, when excited, coarse:— But Miss P. was an angel simply. She was a blushing gushing thing; All—more than all—my fancy painted; Once—when she helped me to a wing Of goose—I thought I should have fainted. The people said that she was blue: But I was green, and loved her dearly. She was approaching thirty-two; And I was then eleven, nearly. I did not love as others do; (None ever did that I’ve heard tell of;) My passion was a byword through The town she was, of course, the belle of. Oh sweet—as to the toilworn man The far-off sound of rippling river; As to cadets in Hindostan The fleeting remnant of their liver— To me was ANNA; dear as gold That fills the miser’s sunless coffers; As to the spinster, growing old, The thought—the dream—that she had offers. I’d sent her little gifts of fruit; I’d written lines to her as Venus; I’d sworn unflinchingly to shoot The man who dared to come between us: