Walter Parke

He stood on his head by the wild seashore,
    And danced on his hands a jig;
In all his emotions, as never before,
    A wildly hilarious grig.

And why? In that ship just crossing the bay
    His mother-in-law had sailed
For a tropical country far away,
    Where tigers and fever prevailed.

Oh, now he might hope for a peaceful life
    And even be happy yet,
Though owning no end of neuralgic wife,
    And up to his collar in debt.

He had borne the old lady through thick and thin,
    And she lectured him out of breath;
And now as he looked at the ship she was in
    He howled for her violent death.

He watched as the good ship cut the sea,
    And bumpishly up-and-downed,
And thought if already she qualmish might be,
    ...

Perchance it was her eyes of blue,
    Her cheeks that might the rose have shamed,
Her figure in proportion true
    To all the rules by artists framed;
Perhaps it was her mental worth
    That made her lover love her so,
Perhaps her name, or wealth, or birth
    I cannot tell, I do not know.

He may have had a rival, who
    Did fiercely gage him to a duel,
And, being luckier of the two,
    Defeated him with triumph cruel;
Then she may have proved false, and turned
    To welcome to her arms his foe,
Left him despairing, conquered, spurned
    I cannot tell, I do not know.

So oft such woes will counteract
    The thousand ecstacies of love,
That you may fix on base of fact
    The story hinted at above;
But all on...