Page 11 - Poetry-Whimsy

While others their unlucky stars were cursing,
Next door!

Then a well-gaitered man amid the riot,
I couldn’t hear him, but I thought he swore;
And all the rest were in an instant quiet,
Next door!

My Betty had gone out—but did not loiter:
I heard her step upon the second floor,
So I ceased for a time to reconnoitre,
Next door!

Perhaps they’re St. Simonians, in whose union
The world will own the purity of yore,
And hold their goods and women in communion,
Next door!

Should it be true that there each sacred brother
Assembles, exiled from his native shore,
Who knows but they’ll make me their “common mother,”
Next door!

Perhaps they’re plotting sanguinary traitors?
I’ll now inquire what characters they bore:
I don’t like that old gentleman in gaiters,
Next door!

Oh dear!—Here I’ll not stay, were I believing
The ground I trod on precious as Bejoar!
Who could have thought that they were so deceiving,
Next door!

I shall go mad, or swoon!—Here’s Mr. Smile’m,
Who took me in a steam-boat to the Nore,
Declares I’ve got A LUNATIC ASYLUM
Next door!

— R. Folkstone Williams, Esq. (Court Magazine, 1834)

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