|(AN IDLE IDYLL BY A VERY HUMBLE MEMBER OF THE GREAT AND NOBLE LONDON MOB.)|
THIS is the Heath of Hampstead,
And the mighty city of London,
Here will we sit, my darling,
Though all the weary week, dear,
But on Sunday we slip our tether,
Away to the green, green country,
On Sunday we’re Lord and Lady,
They drawl and stare and simper,
We can laugh out loud when merry,
Would you grieve very much, my darling,
Wicked?—there is no sin, dear,
I am sinking, sinking, sinking;
How your eyes dazzle down into my soul!
Pout down your lips from that bewildering smile,
I floated with it through the solemn skies,
Well, I prefer one tyrannous girl down here,
III.Was it hundreds of years ago, my Love,
Was it thousands of miles away,
That two poor creatures we know, my Love,
Were toiling day by day;
Were toiling weary, weary,
With many myriads more,
In a City dark and dreary
On a sullen river’s shore?
Was it truly a fact or a dream, my Love?
Was it hundreds of years ago, my Love,
Eight of us promised to meet here
Oh, shame on us, my darling;
Lizzie is off with William,
Mary and Dick so grandly
And Fanny plagues big Robert
Why, bless me, look at that table,
“When the last trumpet-solo
“You should see it in the drawing,
“I wish it wasn’t Sunday,
The bands played polkas, waltzes,
“ Mary is going to chapel,
“We went to Church one Sunday,
“ And I laughed out loud,—it was shameful!
“ Suppose we play Hunt-the-Slipper?”
“I think I’ve seen all the girls here,
“Thank you! and I’ve been listening
“Do you see those purple flushes?
“We will couch in the fern together,
“And while the sunset glory
Ten thousand years ago, (“No more than that?”)
Ten thousand years before, (“Come, draw it mild!
Ten thousand years before, (“But if you take
Ten thousand years before, (“Another ten!
“Are you not going back a little more?
As we rush, as we rush in the Train,
All the beautiful stars of the sky,
We will rush ever on without fear;
Day after day of this azure May
A seething might, a fierce delight,
A sad sweet calm, a tearful balm,
O speed the day, thou dear, dear May,
O mellow moonlight warm,
How my heart shrinks with fear,
|1. (Since finished, in a fashion. The verses were written in 1863.) [back]|