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“The tears live in an onion that should water this
sorrow.”
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A damsel there was, and
her surname was Thrope,
And her Christian name was Ann;
Few lovers had she for her favours to hope,
For she was a hater of man;—
And heartily she detested the sex,
And her only amusement was to vex,
And every thought of pleasure perplex;—
Oh Thrope! Ann Thrope! Oh Miss Ann Thrope!
On the pensoroso plan.
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| LANGUISHING LYRICS. | 83 |
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This sorrowful damsel, Miss Ann Thrope,
Thought laughter a mortal sin;
As soon in the morn as her eyes did ope,
To weep they did begin.
For her highest luxury was to grieve,
And in company to cry in her sleeve,
And as long as her shadow lengthened at eve,
Oh Thrope! Ann Thrope! Oh Miss Ann Thrope!
She was sure to lengthen her chin.
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Such sentimentality, Miss Ann Thrope
Expected all would admire;
So she studied to mumble, mump, and mope,
Like a cat by the kitchen fire.
The joys of the world she turned into woes,
And whenever she stoop’d to pluck a rose,
She took care to scratch her unfortunate nose;—
Oh Thrope! Ann Thrope! Oh Miss Ann Thrope!
By smelling too near the briar.
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Sure nobody else but Miss Ann Thrope
In sorrow would waste the day,
And go out of their road for griefs to grope,
When so many are in the way;
But she in a tombstone made her bed,
And epitaphs all night she read,
And with dying speeches bother’d her head;—
Oh Thrope! Ann Thrope! Oh Miss Ann Thrope!
Till she sent her brains astray.
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When my lord came wooing
to Miss Ann Thrope,
He was just a Childe from
school;
He paid his addresses in a Trope,
And called her his pretty Bul-Bul.
But she knew not in the modern scale,
That a couple of Bulls was a Nightingale;—
So full in his face she turned her tail—
Oh Thrope! Ann Thrope! Oh Miss Ann Thrope!
As sweet as a fresh-blown Gûl.
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Then he sent a love-sonnet to Miss Ann Thrope,
Four stanzas of elegant woe;
The letters were cut in a comical slope,
With Ζωη μου
σας αγαπω.
’Twas all about Rivals, and Ruins, and Racks;
The bearer was drest in a new suit of blacks;
The paper was sable, and so was the wax—
Oh Thrope! Ann Thrope! Oh Miss Ann Thrope!
And his pen was the quill of a Crow.
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| 84 | AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. |
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What queer-looking words, thought Miss Ann Thrope,
To tag at the tail of a Distich!
So she clapped her eye to a microscope,
To get at their sense cabalistic.
He swore in the Hellespont he’d fall,
If she would not go with him to Istambol;
But all she would answer was tol-de-rol-lol—
Oh Thrope! Ann Thrope! Oh Miss Ann Thrope!
To his Lordship’s Rhymes Hellenistic.
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Then the Peer he said—Oh Miss Ann Thrope,
Since life is a fading flower,
You’ll do me the favour to elope
With your own dear faithful Giaour.
And as for your father, your mother, and aunt,
The family all I will enchant,
By reading of a Romaic Romaunt—
Oh Thrope! Ann Thrope! Oh Miss Ann Thrope
Till they shed of tears a shower.
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His Lordship he read,—and Miss Ann Thrope
Was obliged to praise his wit;
But as the poetry seemed rather sop-
Orific, she dozed a bit.
’Till, quite overwhelm’d with slumber and
sorrow,
A yawn or two she begg’d leave to borrow—
And said, if he’d call again to-morrow—
Oh Thrope! Oh Ann! Oh Miss Ann Thrope!
He might read a second Fytte.
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He read till he wept, but Miss Ann Thrope
Declared it was all my eye;
She called him a Jew, and wish’d the Pope
Had his Hebrew melody.
Said my lord, “I beg you will call it E E,
And as whilom you have listened ne,
I’ll be off to the Paynims
beyond the sea—
Oh Thrope! Oh Ann! Oh Miss Ann Thrope!
And leave you eftsoons to
die.”
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Ah who could resist?—not Miss Ann Thrope—
A Corsair hove in sight;
My lord he bid him throw out a rope,
And hold it fast and tight.
So then they put it to the vote,
He tipp’d the Lozel a
one-pound note,
And they jump’d together into the boat—
Oh Thrope! Oh Ann! Oh Miss Ann Thrope!
And bid her Papa Good Night.
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