The Humourous Poetry of the English Language

449
O help me to more gravy still,
There's naught so sure as something nice
To conquer care, or grief to kill.
I always loved a bit of beef,
When Youth and Bliss and Hope were mine;
And now it gives my heart relief
In sorrow's darksome hour--to dine!
THE SICK CHILD.
[BY THE HONOBABLE WILHELMINA SKEGGS.]
PUNCH.
A weakness seizes on my mind--I would more pudding take;
But all in vain--I feel--I feel--my little head will ache.
Oh! that I might alone be left, to rest where now I am,
And finish with a piece of bread that pot of currant jam.
I gaze upon the cake with tears, and wildly I deplore
That I must take a powder if I touch a morsel more,
Or oil of castor, smoothly bland, will offer'd be to me,
In wave pellucid, floating on a cup of milkless tea.
It may be so--I can not tell--I yet may do without;
They need not know, when left alone, what I have been about.
I long to eat that potted beef--to taste that apple-pie;
I long--I long to eat some more, but have not strength to try.
I gasp for breath, and now I know I've eaten far too much;
Not one more crumb of all the feast before me can I touch.
Susan, oh! Susan, ring the bell, and call for mother, dear,
My brain swims round--I feel it all--mother, your child is queer!
THE IMAGINATIVE CRISIS.
PUNCH.