(A Pastoral Story, after Wordsworth)
I marvelled why a simple childThat lightly draws its breathShould utter groans so very wild,And look as pale as Death.Adopting a parental tone,I asked her why she cried;The damsel answered, with a groan,'I've got a pain inside.'I thought it would have sent me madLast night about eleven;'Said I, 'What is it makes you bad?How many apples have you had?'She answered, 'Only seven!''And are you sure you took no more,My little maid?' quoth I.'Oh! please, sir, mother gave me four,Buttheywere in a pie!''If that's the case,' I stammered out,'Of course you've had eleven;'The maiden answered, with a pout,'I ain't had more nor seven!'I wondered hugely what she meant,And said, 'I'm bad at riddles,But I know where little girls are sentFor telling tarradiddles.'Now, if you don't reform,' said I,'You'll never go to heaven.'But all in vain; each time I try,That little idiot makes reply,'I ain't had more nor seven!'POSTSCRIPT.To borrow Wordsworth's name was wrong,Or slightly misapplied;And so I'd better call my song,'Lines afterAche-inside.'
I marvelled why a simple childThat lightly draws its breathShould utter groans so very wild,And look as pale as Death.Adopting a parental tone,I asked her why she cried;The damsel answered, with a groan,'I've got a pain inside.'I thought it would have sent me madLast night about eleven;'Said I, 'What is it makes you bad?How many apples have you had?'She answered, 'Only seven!''And are you sure you took no more,My little maid?' quoth I.'Oh! please, sir, mother gave me four,Buttheywere in a pie!''If that's the case,' I stammered out,'Of course you've had eleven;'The maiden answered, with a pout,'I ain't had more nor seven!'I wondered hugely what she meant,And said, 'I'm bad at riddles,But I know where little girls are sentFor telling tarradiddles.'Now, if you don't reform,' said I,'You'll never go to heaven.'But all in vain; each time I try,That little idiot makes reply,'I ain't had more nor seven!'POSTSCRIPT.To borrow Wordsworth's name was wrong,Or slightly misapplied;And so I'd better call my song,'Lines afterAche-inside.'
I marvelled why a simple childThat lightly draws its breathShould utter groans so very wild,And look as pale as Death.
I marvelled why a simple child
That lightly draws its breath
Should utter groans so very wild,
And look as pale as Death.
Adopting a parental tone,I asked her why she cried;The damsel answered, with a groan,'I've got a pain inside.
Adopting a parental tone,
I asked her why she cried;
The damsel answered, with a groan,
'I've got a pain inside.
'I thought it would have sent me madLast night about eleven;'Said I, 'What is it makes you bad?How many apples have you had?'She answered, 'Only seven!'
'I thought it would have sent me mad
Last night about eleven;'
Said I, 'What is it makes you bad?
How many apples have you had?'
She answered, 'Only seven!'
'And are you sure you took no more,My little maid?' quoth I.'Oh! please, sir, mother gave me four,Buttheywere in a pie!'
'And are you sure you took no more,
My little maid?' quoth I.
'Oh! please, sir, mother gave me four,
Buttheywere in a pie!'
'If that's the case,' I stammered out,'Of course you've had eleven;'The maiden answered, with a pout,'I ain't had more nor seven!'
'If that's the case,' I stammered out,
'Of course you've had eleven;'
The maiden answered, with a pout,
'I ain't had more nor seven!'
I wondered hugely what she meant,And said, 'I'm bad at riddles,But I know where little girls are sentFor telling tarradiddles.
I wondered hugely what she meant,
And said, 'I'm bad at riddles,
But I know where little girls are sent
For telling tarradiddles.
'Now, if you don't reform,' said I,'You'll never go to heaven.'But all in vain; each time I try,That little idiot makes reply,'I ain't had more nor seven!'
'Now, if you don't reform,' said I,
'You'll never go to heaven.'
But all in vain; each time I try,
That little idiot makes reply,
'I ain't had more nor seven!'
To borrow Wordsworth's name was wrong,Or slightly misapplied;And so I'd better call my song,'Lines afterAche-inside.'
To borrow Wordsworth's name was wrong,
Or slightly misapplied;
And so I'd better call my song,
'Lines afterAche-inside.'
(A Reminiscence of 'David Garrick' and 'The Battle of Andalusia.')
Once upon an evening weary, shortly after Lord DundrearyWith his quaint and curious humour set the town in such a roar,With my shilling I stood rapping—only very gently tapping—For the man in charge was napping—at the money-taker's door.It was Mr. Buckstone's playhouse, where I lingered at the door;Paid half price and nothing more.Most distinctly I remember, it was just about September—Though it might have been in August, or it might have been before—Dreadfully I fear'd the morrow. Vainly had I sought to borrow;For (I own it to my sorrow) I was miserably poor,And the heart is heavy laden when one's miserably poor;(I have been so once before.)I was doubtful and uncertain, at the rising of the curtain,If the piece would prove a novelty, or one I'd seen before;For a band of robbers drinking in a gloomy cave, and clinkingWith their glasses on the table, I had witness'd o'er and o'er;Since the half-forgotten period of my innocence was o'er;Twenty years ago or more.Presently my doubt grew stronger. I could stand the thing no longer;'Miss,' said I, 'or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore.Pardon my apparent rudeness. Would you kindly have the goodnessTo inform me if this drama is from Gaul's enlightened shore?'For I know that plays are often brought us from the Gallic shore;Adaptations—nothing more!So I put the question lowly: and my neighbour answer'd slowly,'It's a British drama wholly, written quite in days of yore.'Tis an Andalusian story of a castle old and hoary,And the music is delicious, though the dialogue be poor!'(And I could not help agreeing that the dialoguewaspoor;Very flat, and nothing more.)But at last a lady entered, and my interest grew centredIn her figure, and her features, and the costume that she wore.And the slightest sound she utter'd was like music; so I mutter'dTo my neighbour, 'Glance a minute at your play-bill, I implore.Who's that rare and radiant maiden? Tell, oh, tell me! I implore!'Quoth my neighbour, 'Nelly Moore!'Then I ask'd in quite a tremble—it was useless to dissemble—'Miss, or Madam, do not trifle with my feelings any more;Tell me who, then, was the maiden, that appear'd so sorrow ladenIn the room of David Garrick, with a bust above the door?'Quoth my neighbour, 'Nelly Moore.'* * * * *I've her photograph from Lacy's; that delicious little face isSmiling on me as I'm sitting (in a draught from yonder door),And often in the nightfalls, when a precious little light fallsFrom the wretched tallow candles on my gloomy second-floor,(For I have not got the gaslight on my gloomy second-floor)Comes an echo, 'Nelly Moore!'
Once upon an evening weary, shortly after Lord DundrearyWith his quaint and curious humour set the town in such a roar,With my shilling I stood rapping—only very gently tapping—For the man in charge was napping—at the money-taker's door.It was Mr. Buckstone's playhouse, where I lingered at the door;Paid half price and nothing more.Most distinctly I remember, it was just about September—Though it might have been in August, or it might have been before—Dreadfully I fear'd the morrow. Vainly had I sought to borrow;For (I own it to my sorrow) I was miserably poor,And the heart is heavy laden when one's miserably poor;(I have been so once before.)I was doubtful and uncertain, at the rising of the curtain,If the piece would prove a novelty, or one I'd seen before;For a band of robbers drinking in a gloomy cave, and clinkingWith their glasses on the table, I had witness'd o'er and o'er;Since the half-forgotten period of my innocence was o'er;Twenty years ago or more.Presently my doubt grew stronger. I could stand the thing no longer;'Miss,' said I, 'or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore.Pardon my apparent rudeness. Would you kindly have the goodnessTo inform me if this drama is from Gaul's enlightened shore?'For I know that plays are often brought us from the Gallic shore;Adaptations—nothing more!So I put the question lowly: and my neighbour answer'd slowly,'It's a British drama wholly, written quite in days of yore.'Tis an Andalusian story of a castle old and hoary,And the music is delicious, though the dialogue be poor!'(And I could not help agreeing that the dialoguewaspoor;Very flat, and nothing more.)But at last a lady entered, and my interest grew centredIn her figure, and her features, and the costume that she wore.And the slightest sound she utter'd was like music; so I mutter'dTo my neighbour, 'Glance a minute at your play-bill, I implore.Who's that rare and radiant maiden? Tell, oh, tell me! I implore!'Quoth my neighbour, 'Nelly Moore!'Then I ask'd in quite a tremble—it was useless to dissemble—'Miss, or Madam, do not trifle with my feelings any more;Tell me who, then, was the maiden, that appear'd so sorrow ladenIn the room of David Garrick, with a bust above the door?'Quoth my neighbour, 'Nelly Moore.'* * * * *I've her photograph from Lacy's; that delicious little face isSmiling on me as I'm sitting (in a draught from yonder door),And often in the nightfalls, when a precious little light fallsFrom the wretched tallow candles on my gloomy second-floor,(For I have not got the gaslight on my gloomy second-floor)Comes an echo, 'Nelly Moore!'
Once upon an evening weary, shortly after Lord DundrearyWith his quaint and curious humour set the town in such a roar,With my shilling I stood rapping—only very gently tapping—
Once upon an evening weary, shortly after Lord Dundreary
With his quaint and curious humour set the town in such a roar,
With my shilling I stood rapping—only very gently tapping—
For the man in charge was napping—at the money-taker's door.It was Mr. Buckstone's playhouse, where I lingered at the door;Paid half price and nothing more.
For the man in charge was napping—at the money-taker's door.
It was Mr. Buckstone's playhouse, where I lingered at the door;
Paid half price and nothing more.
Most distinctly I remember, it was just about September—Though it might have been in August, or it might have been before—Dreadfully I fear'd the morrow. Vainly had I sought to borrow;For (I own it to my sorrow) I was miserably poor,And the heart is heavy laden when one's miserably poor;(I have been so once before.)
Most distinctly I remember, it was just about September—
Though it might have been in August, or it might have been before—
Dreadfully I fear'd the morrow. Vainly had I sought to borrow;
For (I own it to my sorrow) I was miserably poor,
And the heart is heavy laden when one's miserably poor;
(I have been so once before.)
I was doubtful and uncertain, at the rising of the curtain,If the piece would prove a novelty, or one I'd seen before;For a band of robbers drinking in a gloomy cave, and clinkingWith their glasses on the table, I had witness'd o'er and o'er;Since the half-forgotten period of my innocence was o'er;Twenty years ago or more.
I was doubtful and uncertain, at the rising of the curtain,
If the piece would prove a novelty, or one I'd seen before;
For a band of robbers drinking in a gloomy cave, and clinking
With their glasses on the table, I had witness'd o'er and o'er;
Since the half-forgotten period of my innocence was o'er;
Twenty years ago or more.
Presently my doubt grew stronger. I could stand the thing no longer;'Miss,' said I, 'or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore.Pardon my apparent rudeness. Would you kindly have the goodnessTo inform me if this drama is from Gaul's enlightened shore?'For I know that plays are often brought us from the Gallic shore;Adaptations—nothing more!
Presently my doubt grew stronger. I could stand the thing no longer;
'Miss,' said I, 'or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore.
Pardon my apparent rudeness. Would you kindly have the goodness
To inform me if this drama is from Gaul's enlightened shore?'
For I know that plays are often brought us from the Gallic shore;
Adaptations—nothing more!
So I put the question lowly: and my neighbour answer'd slowly,'It's a British drama wholly, written quite in days of yore.'Tis an Andalusian story of a castle old and hoary,And the music is delicious, though the dialogue be poor!'(And I could not help agreeing that the dialoguewaspoor;Very flat, and nothing more.)
So I put the question lowly: and my neighbour answer'd slowly,
'It's a British drama wholly, written quite in days of yore.
'Tis an Andalusian story of a castle old and hoary,
And the music is delicious, though the dialogue be poor!'
(And I could not help agreeing that the dialoguewaspoor;
Very flat, and nothing more.)
But at last a lady entered, and my interest grew centredIn her figure, and her features, and the costume that she wore.And the slightest sound she utter'd was like music; so I mutter'dTo my neighbour, 'Glance a minute at your play-bill, I implore.Who's that rare and radiant maiden? Tell, oh, tell me! I implore!'Quoth my neighbour, 'Nelly Moore!'
But at last a lady entered, and my interest grew centred
In her figure, and her features, and the costume that she wore.
And the slightest sound she utter'd was like music; so I mutter'd
To my neighbour, 'Glance a minute at your play-bill, I implore.
Who's that rare and radiant maiden? Tell, oh, tell me! I implore!'
Quoth my neighbour, 'Nelly Moore!'
Then I ask'd in quite a tremble—it was useless to dissemble—'Miss, or Madam, do not trifle with my feelings any more;Tell me who, then, was the maiden, that appear'd so sorrow ladenIn the room of David Garrick, with a bust above the door?'Quoth my neighbour, 'Nelly Moore.'
Then I ask'd in quite a tremble—it was useless to dissemble—
'Miss, or Madam, do not trifle with my feelings any more;
Tell me who, then, was the maiden, that appear'd so sorrow laden
In the room of David Garrick, with a bust above the door?'
Quoth my neighbour, 'Nelly Moore.'
* * * * *
* * * * *
I've her photograph from Lacy's; that delicious little face isSmiling on me as I'm sitting (in a draught from yonder door),And often in the nightfalls, when a precious little light fallsFrom the wretched tallow candles on my gloomy second-floor,(For I have not got the gaslight on my gloomy second-floor)Comes an echo, 'Nelly Moore!'
I've her photograph from Lacy's; that delicious little face is
Smiling on me as I'm sitting (in a draught from yonder door),
And often in the nightfalls, when a precious little light falls
From the wretched tallow candles on my gloomy second-floor,
(For I have not got the gaslight on my gloomy second-floor)
Comes an echo, 'Nelly Moore!'