The Rhode Island Republican

From the same paper.

WHAT'S THE MATTER? WHY-THE MATTER.

Edgar—"My cue is villainous melancholy with a sigh like Tom o'Bedlam."—Lear.

You may talk of the "Sorrows of Werter,"
And the "devils" of Jean Rousseau;
You may tell of the man that suffered thus,
And of the maid that suffered "so;"
But the sorrows I'm going to tell you of,
Are sadder things than these,
And Job's—but there's no comparison—
Were moonshine to a cheese.

I'm living, you see, in the country—
It's nothing to you, the why—
And I room in a certain story—
It's nothing to you how high.

I've a bed, and a chair, and a table,
And a fraction of a glass;
And I write for a living, and read for fun,
And my name—but let that pass.

I eat my dinner at 2 o'clock—
It's mostly veal just now;
And I drink my tea at half past four,
And the tea-kettle is a cow.

We sit till twelve in our quiet room—
My merry quill and I;
And I tell him tales of my busy brain,
That would make you laugh "to die"
(I'll come to my sorrows presently.)

I rise when the robin sings,
I have a slut of a country girl,
Who looks to my bed and things;
I take a bit of a willow switch
To emphasize withal,
And I walk and repeat my poetry,
With the leave of the stone wall.

But when I'm out, the slut goes in,
And she makes my bed—'tis true—
But she does some other things beside
That I wouldn't have her do.

I hate to have my papers touched,
Or meddled with—a straw—
She calls it "slicking up the room,"
And stuffs them in the drawer!

I write upon a slate, to save
My paper, ink, and pen;
And in the ashes frequently
Make "Chateaux en Espagne."

She swept my hearth to-day—and there
A blessed dream was gone!
And washed my slate, when—hang her soul!
It had a sonnet on!

Oh scrape my files with an oyster shell—
Bedevil me like Rousseau—
Love me and marry, as Charlotte did,
Who finished her Werter so.

I'll go on peas a pilgrimage—
Sit all day on a stone—
But when I'm out, you Cicely
Just let my things alone!