NUMBER ONE.

  “It’s very hard! and so it is,
    To live in such a row,
  And witness this, that every Miss
    But me has got a beau. 
  For Love goes calling up and down,
    But here he seems to shun. 
  I’m sure he has been asked enough
    To call at Number One!

  “I’m sick of all the double knocks
    That come to Number Four! 
  At Number Three I often see
    A lover at the door;
  And one in blue, at Number Two,
    Calls daily like a dun,—­
  It’s very hard they come so near
    And not at Number One.

  “Miss Bell, I hear, has got a dear
    Exactly to her mind,
  By sitting at the window pane
    Without a bit of blind;
  But I go in the balcony,
    Which she has never done,
  Yet arts that thrive at Number Five
    Don’t take at Number One.

  “’Tis hard with plenty in the street,
    And plenty passing by,—­
  There’s nice young men at Number Ten,
    But only rather shy;
  And Mrs. Smith across the way
    Has got a grown-up son. 
  But la! he hardly seems to know
    There is a Number One!

  “There’s Mr. Wick at Number Nine,
    But he’s intent on pelf,
  And though he’s pious, will not love
    His neighbour as himself. 
  At Number Seven there was a sale—­
    The goods had quite a run! 
  And here I’ve got my single lot
    On hand at Number One!

  “My mother often sits at work
    And talks of props and stays,
  And what a comfort I shall be
    In her declining days! 
  The very maids about the house
    Have set me down a nun,
  The sweethearts all belong to them
    That call at Number One!

  “Once only, when the flue took fire,
    One Friday afternoon,
  Young Mr. Long came kindly in,
    And told me not to swoon. 
  Why can’t he come again without
    The Phoenix and the Sun? 
  We cannot always have a flue
    On fire at Number One!

  “I am not old, I am not plain,
    Nor awkward in my gait—­
  I am not crooked like the bride
    That went from Number Eight;
  I’m sure white satin made her look
    As brown as any bun—­
  But even beauty has no chance
    I think at Number One.

  “At Number Six they say Miss Rose
    Has slain a score of hearts,
  And Cupid, for her sake, has been
    Quite prodigal of darts. 
  The imp they show with bended bow—­
    I wish he had a gun;
  But if he had, he’d never deign
    To shoot with Number One.

  “It’s very hard, and so it is,
    To live in such a row;
  And here’s a ballad-singer come
    To aggravate my woe;
  O take away your foolish song
    And tones enough to stun—­
  There is ‘nae luck about the house,’
    I know at Number One.”