Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/507
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THE MAGPIE.
489
Greeted my digits with the wonted squeeze:
Once more I went my way, along, along,
And plucked no wondering gaze; the hand of scorn
With its annoying finger, men, and dogs,
Once more grew pointless, jokeless, laughless, growlless—
And at last, not least of rescued blessings, love!
Love smiled on me again, when I assumed
A bran new chapeau of the Melton build;
And then the laugh was mine, for, then out came
The secret of this strangeness—'twas a bet,—
A friend had laid me fifty pounds to ten,
Three years I would not wear it—and I did!
Once more I went my way, along, along,
And plucked no wondering gaze; the hand of scorn
With its annoying finger, men, and dogs,
Once more grew pointless, jokeless, laughless, growlless—
And at last, not least of rescued blessings, love!
Love smiled on me again, when I assumed
A bran new chapeau of the Melton build;
And then the laugh was mine, for, then out came
The secret of this strangeness—'twas a bet,—
A friend had laid me fifty pounds to ten,
Three years I would not wear it—and I did!
The Magpie; or, Bad Company.
Let others with poetic fire,
In raptures praise the tuneful choir,
The linnet, chaffinch, goldfinch, thrush,
And every warbler of the bush;
I sing the mimic magpie's fame,
In wicker cage, well-fed, and tame,
In raptures praise the tuneful choir,
The linnet, chaffinch, goldfinch, thrush,
And every warbler of the bush;
I sing the mimic magpie's fame,
In wicker cage, well-fed, and tame,
In Fleet Street dwelt, in days of yore,
A jolly tradesman named Tom More;
Generous and open as the day,
But passionately fond of play;
No sounds to him such sweets afford
As dice-box, rattling o'er the board;
Bewitching hazard is the game
For which he forfeits health and fame.
A jolly tradesman named Tom More;
Generous and open as the day,
But passionately fond of play;
No sounds to him such sweets afford
As dice-box, rattling o'er the board;
Bewitching hazard is the game
For which he forfeits health and fame.
In basket prison hung on high,
With dappled coat and watchful eye,
A favourite magpie sees the play,
And mimics every word they say;
"By Jove, he nicks us!" Tom More cries;
"By Jove, he nicks us!" Mag replies.
The astonished gamesters lift their eyes,
And wondering stare, and look around,
As doubtful whence proceeds the sound.
With dappled coat and watchful eye,
A favourite magpie sees the play,
And mimics every word they say;
"By Jove, he nicks us!" Tom More cries;
"By Jove, he nicks us!" Mag replies.
The astonished gamesters lift their eyes,
And wondering stare, and look around,
As doubtful whence proceeds the sound.
This dissipated life, of course,
Soon brought poor Tom from bad to worse;
Nor prayers nor promises prevail
To keep him from a dreary jail.
Soon brought poor Tom from bad to worse;
Nor prayers nor promises prevail
To keep him from a dreary jail.