As a poet, I’m tender and quaint—­
    I’ve passion and fervor and grace—­
      From Ovid and Horace
      To Swinburne and Morris,
    They all of them take a back place,
  Then I sing and I play and I paint;
    Though none are accomplished as I,
      To say so were treason: 
      You ask me the reason? 
    I’m diffident, modest and shy!

[Illustration]

THE HIGHLY RESPECTABLE GONDOLIER.

  I stole the Prince, and I brought him here,
      And left him, gaily prattling
  With a highly respectable Gondolier,
  Who promised the Royal babe to rear,
  And teach him the trade of a timoneer
      With his own beloved bratling.

    Both of the babes were strong and stout,
      And, considering all things, clever. 
    Of that there is no manner of doubt—­
    No probable, possible shadow of doubt—­
      No possible doubt whatever.

  Time sped, and when at the end of a year
      I sought that infant cherished,
  That highly respectable Gondolier
  Was lying a corpse on his humble bier—­
  I dropped a Grand Inquisitor’s tear—­
      That Gondolier had perished.

    A taste for drink, combined with gout,
      Had doubled him up for ever. 
    Of that there is no manner of doubt—­
    No probable, possible shadow of doubt—­
      No possible doubt whatever.

  But owing, I’m much disposed to fear,
      To his terrible taste for tippling,
  That highly respectable Gondolier
  Could never declare with a mind sincere
  Which of the two was his offspring dear,
      And which the Royal stripling!

    Which was which he could never make out,
      Despite his best endeavour. 
    Of that there is no manner of doubt—­
    No probable, possible shadow of doubt—­
      No possible doubt whatever.

  The children followed his old career—­
      (This statement can’t be parried)
  Of a highly respectable Gondolier: 
  Well, one of the two (who will soon be here)—­
  But which of the two is not quite clear—­
      Is the Royal Prince you married!

    Search in and out and round about
      And you’ll discover never
    A tale so free from every doubt—­
    All probable, possible shadow of doubt—­
      All possible doubt whatever!

DON’T FORGET.

    Now, Marco dear,
    My wishes hear: 
      While you’re away
    It’s understood
    You will be good,
      And not too gay. 
    To every trace
    Of maiden grace
      You will be blind,
    And will not glance
    By any chance
      On womankind! 
    If you are wise,
    You’ll shut your eyes
    ’Till we arrive,
    And not address
    A lady less
      Than forty-five;
    You’ll please to frown
    On every gown
      That you may see;
    And O, my pet,
    You won’t forget
      You’ve married me!