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Title: Why, Pretty Page, Art Ever Sighing?
Author: W. S. Gilbert [
More Titles by Gilbert]
Why, pretty page, art ever sighing?
Is sorrow in thy heartlet lying?
Come, set a-ringing
Thy laugh entrancing,
And ever singing
And ever dancing.
Ever singing, Tra! la! la!
Ever dancing, Tra! la! la!
Ever singing, ever dancing,
Ever singing, Tra! la! la!
He skipped for joy like little muttons,
He danced like Esmeralda's kid.
(She did not mean a boy in buttons,
Although he fancied that she did.)
Poor lad! convinced he thus would win her,
He wore out many pairs of soles;
He danced when taking down the dinner--
He danced when bringing up the coals.
He danced and sang (however laden)
With his incessant "Tra! la! la!"
Which much surprised the noble maiden,
And puzzled even her Papa.
He nourished now his flame and fanned it,
He even danced at work below.
The upper servants wouldn't stand it,
And BOWLES the butler told him so.
At length on impulse acting blindly,
His love he laid completely bare;
The gentle Earl received him kindly
And told the lad to take a chair.
"Oh, sir," the suitor uttered sadly,
"Don't give your indignation vent;
I fear you think I'm acting madly,
Perhaps you think me insolent?"
The kindly Earl repelled the notion;
His noble bosom heaved a sigh,
His fingers trembled with emotion,
A tear stood in his mild blue eye:
For, oh! the scene recalled too plainly
The half-forgotten time when he,
A boy of nine, had worshipped vainly
A governess of forty-three!
"My boy," he said, in tone consoling,
"Give up this idle fancy--do--
The song you heard my daughter trolling
Did not, indeed, refer to you.
"I feel for you, poor boy, acutely;
I would not wish to give you pain;
Your pangs I estimate minutely,--
I, too, have loved, and loved in vain.
"But still your humble rank and station
For MINNIE surely are not meet"--
He said much more in conversation
Which it were needless to repeat.
Now I'm prepared to bet a guinea,
Were this a mere dramatic case,
The page would have eloped with MINNIE,
But, no--he only left his place.
The simple Truth is my detective,
With me Sensation can't abide;
The Likely beats the mere Effective,
And Nature is my only guide.
[The end]
W. S. Gilbert's poem: Why, Pretty Page, Art Ever Sighing?
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