“an indifference to tears, and blood, and human suffering, that could only belong to a boney-parte.”—life of napoleon.
time was, i always had a drop
for any tale or sigh of sorrow;
my handkerchief i used to sop
till often i was forced to borrow;
i don’t know how it is, but now
my eyelids seldom want a drying;
the doctors, p’rhaps, could tell me how—
i fear my heart is ossifying!
o’er goethe how i used to weep,
with turnip cheeks and nose of scarlet,
when werter put himself to sleep
with pistols kiss’d and clean’d by charlotte;
self-murder is an awful sin,
no joke there is in bullets flying,
but now at such a tale i grin—
i fear my heart is ossifying!
the drama once could shake and thrill
my nerves, and set my tears a stealing,
the siddons then could turn at will
each plug upon the main of feeling;
at belvidera now i smile,
and laugh while mrs. haller’s crying;
’tis odd, so great a change of style—
i fear my heart is ossifying!
[pg 234]
that heart was such—some years ago,
to see a beggar quite would shock it,
and in his hat i used to throw
the quarter’s savings of my pocket:
i never wish—as i did then!—
the means from my own purse supplying,
to turn them all to gentlemen—
i fear my heart is ossifying!
we’ve had some serious things of late,
our sympathies to beg or borrow,
new melo-drames, of tragic fate,
and acts and songs, and tales of sorrow;
miss zouch’s case, our eyes to melt,
and sundry actors sad good-bye-ing.
but lord!—so little have i felt,
i’m sure my heart is ossifying!
the poacher.
a serious ballad.
but a bold pheasantry, their country’s pride,
when once destroyed can never be supplied.
goldsmith.
bill blossom was a nice young man,
and drove the bury coach;
but bad companions were his bane,
and egg’d him on to poach.
they taught him how to net the birds,
and how to noose the hare;
and with a wiry terrier,
he often set a snare.
[pg 235]
each “shiny night” the moon was bright,
to park, preserve, and wood
he went, and kept the game alive,
by killing all he could.
