After Charles Wolfe
The Burial of the Bachelor
NOT a laugh was heard, not a frivolous note,
As the groom to the wedding we carried;
Not a jester discharged his farewell shot
As the bachelor went to be married.
We married him quickly that morning bright,
The leaves of our prayer-books turning,
In the chancel’s dimly religious light,
And tears in our eyelids burning.
No useless nosegay adorned his chest,
Not in chains but in laws we bound him;
And he looked like a bridegroom trying his best
To look used to the scene around him.
Few and small were the fees it cost,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
But we silently gazed on the face of the lost
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought as we hurried him home to be fed,
And tried our low spirits to rally,
That the weather looked very like squalls overhead
For the passage from Dover to Calais.
Lightly they’ll talk of the bachelor gone,
And o’er his frail fondness upbraid him;
But little he’ll reck if they let him alone,
With his wife that the parson hath made him.
But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we judged by the knocks which had now begun
That their cabby was rapidly tiring.
Slowly and sadly we led them down,
From the scene of his lame oratory;
We told the four-wheeler to drive them to town,
And we left them alone in their glory.
Anonymous.
Not a Sou Had He Got
NOT a sou had he got—not a guinea or note,
And he looked confoundedly flurried
As he bolted away without paying his shot,
And the Landlady after him hurried.
We saw him again at dead of night,
When home from the club returning;
We twigged the Doctor beneath the light
Of the gas-lamp brilliantly burning.
All bare and exposed to the midnight dews,
Reclined in the gutter we found him;
And he look’d like a gentleman taking a snooze,
With his Marshal cloak around him.
“The Doctor’s as drunk as the d——,” we said,
And we managed a shutter to borrow;
We raised him, and sighed at the thought that his head
Would “consumedly ache” on the morrow.
We bore him home, and we put him to bed,
And we told his wife and his daughter
To give him, next morning, a couple of red
Herrings, with soda-water.
Loudly they talked of his money that’s gone
And his lady began to upbraid him;
But little he reck’d, so they let him snore on
’Neath the counterpane just as we laid him.
We tucked him in, and had hardly done
When, beneath the window calling,
We heard the rough voice of a son of a gun
Of a watchman “One o’clock!” bawling.
Slowly and sadly we all walk’d down
From his room in the uppermost story;
A rushlight was placed on the cold hearth-stone,
And we left him alone in his glory!
R. Harris Barham.
The Marriage of Sir John Smith
NOT a sigh was heard, nor a funeral tone,
As the man to his bridal we hurried;
Not a woman discharged her farewell groan,
On the spot where the fellow was married.
We married him just about eight at night,
Our faces paler turning,
By the struggling moonbeam’s misty light,
And the gas-lamp’s steady burning.
No useless watch-chain covered his vest,
Nor over-dressed we found him;
But he looked like a gentleman wearing his best,
With a few of his friends around him.
Few and short were the things we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
But we silently gazed on the man that was wed,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we silently stood about,
With spite and anger dying,
How the merest stranger had cut us out,
With only half our trying.
Lightly we’ll talk of the fellow that’s gone,
And oft for the past upbraid him;
But little he’ll reck if we let him live on,
In the house where his wife conveyed him.
But our heavy task at length was done,
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the spiteful squib and pun
The girls were sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we turned to go,—
We had struggled, and we were human;
We shed not a tear, and we spoke not our woe,
But we left him alone with his woman.
Phœbe Cary.