Is really but a sprat; Of light guitar I cannot boast, With sandy hair and greyish He never serenades ; eyes There's no Romance in that! He writes, and sends it by the post, He doesn't bribe the maids: He wears no plumes or Spanish No stealth, no hempen ladder→→ cloaks, Or long sword hanging down; There's no Romance in that! He's rather bald, his sight is weak, cents. By way of private chat, Of Spanish Bonds, and shares, and rents, There's no Romance in that! I sing no matter what I sing, Di Tanti-or Crudel, no! He comes with loud rat-tat, Row There's no Romance in that! He comes at nine, in time to choose His coffee-just two cups, news, Repeats debates, and sups; John helps him with his coat And Jenkins hands his hat; aright, My lover bows, and says good night There's no Romance in that! I've long had Pa's and Ma's consent, My aunt she quite approves, Tom Bowling, or God save the My Brother wishes joy from Kent, King, Di piacer-All's well; He knows no more about a voice For singing than a gnat- None try to thwart our loves; There's no Romance in that! A Waterloo Ballad. To Waterloo, with sad ado, And many a sigh and groan, Amongst the dead, came Patty Head, To look for Peter Stone. "O prithee tell, good sentinel, If I shall find him here? I'm come corse, "Into our town a serjeant came With ribands all so fine, A-flaunting in his cap-alas! His bow enlisted mine! They taught him how to turn his toes, And stand as stiff as starch; to weep upon his I thought that it was love and My Ninety-Second dear! May, But it was love and March! W 'THE IDES OF MARCH ARE COME!" |