The Poetry Collections of Lewis Carroll. Lewis Carroll

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СКАЧАТЬ long his mid-day stroll had made,

      On the so-called “Marine Parade”—

      (Meant, I presume, for Seamen brave,

      Whose “march is on the Mountain wave”;

      ’Twere just the bathing-place for him

      Who stays on land till he can swim—)

      And he had strayed into the Town,

      And paced each alley up and down,

      Where still, so narrow grew the way,

      The very houses seemed to say,

      Nodding to friends across the Street,

      “One struggle more and we shall meet.”

      And he had scaled that wondrous stair

      That soars from earth to upper air,

      Where rich and poor alike must climb,

      And walk the treadmill for a time.

      That morning he had dressed with care,

      And put Pomatum on his hair;

      He was, the loungers all agreed,

      A very heavy swell indeed:

      Men thought him, as he swaggered by,

      Some scion of nobility,

      And never dreamed, so cold his look,

      That he had loved—and loved a Cook.

      Upon the beach he stood and sighed

      Unheedful of the treacherous tide;

      Thus sang he to the listening main,

      And soothed his sorrow with the strain!

Coronach

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      “She is gone by the Hilda,

      She is lost unto Whitby,

      And her name is Matilda,

      Which my heart it was smit by; Tho’ I take the Goliah,

      I learn to my sorrow

      That ‘it won’t,’ said the crier,

      ‘Be off till to-morrow.’

      “She called me her ‘Neddy,’

      (Tho’ there mayn’t be much in it,) And I should have been ready,

      If she’d waited a minute;

      I was following behind her

      When, if you recollect, I

      Merely ran back to find a

      Gold pin for my neck-tie.

      “Rich dresser of suet!

      Prime hand at a sausage!

      I have lost thee, I rue it,

      And my fare for the passage!

      Perhaps she thinks it funny,

      Aboard of the Hilda,

      But I’ve lost purse and money,

      And thee, oh, my ‘Tilda!’

      His pin of gold the youth undid

      And in his waistcoat-pocket hid,

      Then gently folded hand in hand,

      And dropped asleep upon the sand.

She’s All my Fancy Painted Him

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      [This affecting fragment was found in MS. among the papers of the well-known author of “Was it You or I?” a tragedy, and the two popular novels, “Sister and Son,” and “The Niece’s Legacy, or the Grateful Grandfather.”]

      She’s all my fancy painted him

      (I make no idle boast);

      If he or you had lost a limb,

      Which would have suffered most?

      He said that you had been to her,

      And seen me here before;

      But, in another character,

      She was the same of yore.

      There was not one that spoke to us,

      Of all that thronged the street: So he sadly got into a ’bus,

      And pattered with his feet.

      They sent him word I had not gone

      (We know it to be true);

      If she should push the matter on,

      What would become of you?

      They gave her one, they gave me two,

      They gave us three or more;

      They all returned from him to you,

      Though they were mine before.

      If I or she should chance to be

      Involved in this affair,

      He trusts to you to set them free,

      Exactly as we were.

      It seemed to me that you had been

      (Before she had this fit)

      An obstacle, that came between

      Him, and ourselves, and it.

      Don’t let him know she liked them best,

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