Maryland, my Maryland, and other poems/Silhouette
SILHOUETTE
Ladies and gallants, well a day!
If ride ye must, and will not stay,
Ah, do not ride in midmost May!
Lassie! be sure to take your brother;
Laddie! go not without grandmother;
Lassie and laddie, take no other!
For I have been the dupe of blisses—
My malison on blonden Misses,
With cherry months lip-full with kisses;
And jaunty hats with ribboned bows,
And beaded basques and—heaven knows
What gilded pitfalls full of woes!
Dear little bread and butter chit,
You jilted me I must admit—
And split my heart—the deuce a bit!
I swore the jewel of Glamschid
Than you less excellency hid;
You thought so too—you know you did.
And yet you made a famous fool
Of one a lastrum since from school;
I’m on the penitential stool.
With groan and grimace acrimonious,
I vote all flirting most erroneous,
And bivouac with Saint Antonius,
Old Nick shall thump me black and blue,
And with his horned head punch me through,
Ere I succumb to jays like you.
I’ll make the calaboose my bunk,
I’ll delve in some monastic trunk;
’Twere highly proper to get drunk!
I’ll sing Am Rhein in the Casino—
Become obstreperous with Blineau;
In divers ways I’ll breeze my spleen, oh!
Lycanthropy to me is placid;
I’ll out-strut e’en Haroun Alraschid—
Read Werter, too, for prussic acid.
I’ll button-hole old Villabobia,
Prating of bonnets and Zenobia—
Bombastes B and hydrophobia.
Of Fremont—Brutus (Junius Lucius)—
Seward—Scæzola (baptized Mutius)—
Of Mother Goose and Kean Confucius.
All womankind shall learn to rue it;
I’ll drench my locks with mutton suet,
And guard the corners—young men do it!
Upon reflection, I will not
Become an interesting sot,
And sprout a nasal apricot!
Philosophy shall be obeyed;
I’ll puff my meerschaum in the shade,
And live to see you an old maid!
A starch old maid with snuff and chat,
With crippled curls and—think of that—
A fusty parrot and—a cat!
Alack! and what shall I be then?
Perchance a Bedouin with men—
Perchance a starved wolf in my den.
No—no! I can not hate you yet,
While many a treasured amulet
Of lang syne dares me to forgot!
I have your tiny gloves hard by;
You gave them to me with a sigh—
They’re torn and faded—so am I.
I banquet on them with my looks,
I haunt the meadow—tangled brooks,
And sift dried jasmins from my books.
And brooding o’er them wrath is felled;
I only see the hands they held,
Becking me ever back to Eld!
Yes—yes! I do forgive the Past;
And though your stars be overcast,
I’ll deem you loveliest to the last.
But I shall ride no more away,
In kingly cavalier array,
In midmost love—in midmost May!