Metrical tales, and other poems; - Electric Scotland

166 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
Perchance my prose was wretched ill,
My rhymes as poor as this
But yet my diction, thought, and skill,
Were praised so much hy Miss,
That I did really think such men
As Byron, Bums, and Scott
Should I go on to wield the pen
Must quickly he forgot
And wondered why the world went round,
Just as at other times.
Nor stood, in reverence profound,
To listen to my rhymes !
Alas for youthful poet's dreams.
And trustful lover's too !
Ala"B for all who write their themes
To maidens like my "Loo!"
Loo's father had a country inn,
A grocer's shop kept he.
And dealt in whisky, rum, and gin.
Tobacco, snufl', and tea.
And oft, behind the counter, would
My true love take her stand,
For she was dutiful and good.
And quick of tongue and hand.
Nor Hamlet's mother had more thrift,
(As true as I'm a sinner!)
Who, from a funeral feast, made shift
To save a marriage dinner.
For "dear Louisa," in the shop.
Made use of my poetics
For wrapping soda, starch, and soap,
Cathartics and emetics.
My tales in prose—my cherished tales
Of friendship, love, and war