The Humourous Poetry of the English Language

235
Though dropped her jaw, her lip though pale,
And blue each harmless finger-nail,
She's beautiful in death.
As o'er her lovely limbs I weep,
I scarce can think her but asleep--
How wonderfully tame!
And yet her voice is really gone,
And dim those eyes that lately shone
With all the lightning's flame.
Death was, indeed, a daring wight,
To take it in his head to smite--
To lift his dart to hit her;
For as she was so great a woman,
And cared a single fig for no man,
I thought he feared to meet her.
Still is that voice of late so strong,
That many a sweet capriccio sung,
And beat in sounds the spheres;
No longer must those fingers play
"Britons strike home," that many a day
Hath soothed my ravished ears,
Ah me! indeed I 'm much inclined
To think how I may speak my mind,
Nor hurt her dear repose;
Nor think I now with rage she'd roar,
Were I to put my fingers o'er,
And touch her precious nose.
Here let me philosophic pause-
How wonderful are nature's laws,
When ladies' breath retires,
Its fate the flaming passions share,
Supported by a little air,
Like culinary fires,
Whene'er I hear the bagpipe's note,
Shall fancy fix on Grizzle's throat,