While The Billy BoilsSearchWhat makes me wear my boots so tight,And much pomatum buy,Toss restless on my bed at night,And like an earthquake sigh?
I 've seen a maid, I'd fain persuadeThat girl to fancy me;Thrice happy fate with such a mateFor life as Polly C———!
But then I can't without her auntThat damsel ever see;Why must there always be a "but"Between my hopes and me?
And Polly C——— has got to beBetween me and my peace,For though I can't endure the aunt,I idolize the neice.
The aunt is forty-three at least,The neice but seventeen;For her I pine, for her so greasedMy hair of late has been.
For her my feet are close compressedIn boots a deal too tight;For her I sacrifice my rest,And get no sleep at night;
For her I run that tailor's billThat makes my father swear,And to the grave I fear it willBring down his grizzled hair.
We met, but 'twas not in a crowd,It was not at a ball,Nor where cascades with thunder loudFrom precipices fall;
Nor where the mountain torrents rush,Or ocean billows heave;Nor at the railway terminus'Mid cries of "by'r leave;"
It was not in the forest wild,Nor on the silent sea—Romantic reader don't be riled—'Twas at a "spelling-bee."
'Twas there I marked the jetty coilThat crowned her classic head—The perfumes of macassar oilWere all around her shed.
And o'er the meaner spirits thereHer mighty soul arose;Her intellect and genius wereAspiring—like her nose.
And Polly was the fairest there—'The goddess of the class—Among the polysyllablesUnscathed I saw her pass.
Examiners with piercing eye,And terror-striking frownIn vain to trip her up might try—In vain to take her down.
She triumphs, and the loud applauseFrom roof to basement rings—Each other girl with envy gnawsHer hat and bonnet strings.
Sometimes (regardless of expense)I dressed and went to church;One glimpse of her would recompenseMy eager longing search.
And, while the swelling organ rentThe air with solemn tunes,On spelling-bees my thoughts were bentAnd happy honeymoons.
And where I brooding sat aloneThe wildest dreams I dreamt,And swore to win her for my ownOr "bust' in the attempt.
We met at parties, and our toesWhirl in the dreamy waltz,And if at times a thought arose—Could hair like that be false?
I sniffed the reassuring coilThat shamed the damask rose,And could not breathe a thought disloyalWhile that was near my nose.
At length her aunt—the summer gone—The influenza got;To see my Polly to her homeIt oft became my lot.
And if I took the longest wayThe fraud was never known,For organ of "locality"My darling she had none.
One night, about the supper hour,Thanks to some kindly fate,We reached the entrance to her bower—I mean the garden gate.
It was a gloomy night and wetWith rain and driving sleet,And more than common risk besetPedestrians in the street.
From harm from wheel of cab or cartI'd kept my darling free,And in the fulness of her heartShe asked me in to tea.
Her aunt, that stately dame and grand,Looked knives and forks at me;She'd "Butter's Spelling" in her hand,And "Webster" on her knee.
Her bead-like eyes gleamed bright behindThe spectacles she wore;Of intellect and strength of mindShe had enough for four.
And tall her figure was, and spare,And bony were her joints;Orthography and grammar wereThe strongest of her points.
A morbid taste this virgin chasteFor dictionaries had;Though Polly C. might perfect be,Her aunt was spelling mad.
I felt that if an angel brightTo earth from Oether fell,She'd either give that Son of LightSome heavy word to spell,
Or else she'd get him on to parse,'Till sick of earthly things,He'd work his passage to the starsUpon his downy wings.
At Dr. Blank's academy,I never took the lead;My grammar and orthographyWere very weak indeed,
And oft those academic wallsHave echoed to my howls,Responsive to the Doctor's callsFor consonants and vow'ls.
His rules respecting "Q's" and "P's"Were graven on our backs,And though we had no spelling-bees,I got my share of whacks.
For what the Doctor failed to seeImpressed upon the mind,Was certain very soon to beImpressed in full behind.
But still, despite the scathing look,And cane of Dr. Blank.My spelling powers never tookAn elevated rank.
And if my hopes of Polly hungUpon so frail a thread,My life was blighted 'ere begun—My hopes, scarce born, were dead.
All silent through that evening mealI sat with bended head,And now and then a glance I stealAt Polly while she fed;
But though her eyes I often seek,I only look at most;My heart's too full of love to speak,My mouth too full of toast.
Oh! sweet love-feast!—too sweet to last—Oh! bitter after-cud!Oh! spinster grim why didst thou blastLove's blossom in the bud?
For, ere one happy hour could pass,That virgin grim and fellInvited me to join the classWhere Polly went to spell;
And though I trembled in my shoes,In hopeless agony,Could I the aunt of her refuseWhose spell was over me?
At length arrived the dreaded hour,And primed with eau de vie,I sought that orthographic bowerWhere met the spelling-bee.
No hope of prizes lured me towardThose hundred gleaming eyes,For me there was but one reward,And Polly was the prize.
For her my dull ambition leapt,In literary listsTo cope with lunatics who sleptWith "Webster" in their fists.
Vague dread forebodings cloud my brow,And make my cheek grow pale,Oh! Dr. Johnson help me now—My hopes are in the scale!
My frame with apprehension shook;To nerve me for the task,With tender, longing, yearning lookI eyed my pocket-flask,
And tempted by the spirit brightThat dwelt within its lips,I put the contents out of sightIn two convulsive sips.
A stony-eyed examinerCame in and took the chair;I knew a place that's spelt with "H,"And wished that he was there.
I softly cursed his form erect,His "specs" with golden rim,And prayed that doctors might dissectHis body limb from limb.
But soon the spirit's subtle fumeObfusticates my view;The common objects of the roomSeem multiplied by two.
My breast, the late abode of funk,With courage was embued;I was a little less than drunk,And something more than screwed.
And while my heart beat loud and fastWith wild convulsive pants,I saw two Pollys, and alas!A pair of Polly's Aunts!I fail to solve the mysteryWhich Polly I prefer,But thought I'd like PolygamyWith duplicates of her.Involved in intellectual gloom,I found the A. B. C.Had vanished, vanquished by the fumesOf Henessey's P. B.And when that stony-looking oneApplied at length to me,I spelt "consumption" with a "K,"And "kangaroo" with "C"!I will not paint these harrowing scenes,Nor keep thee, reader, long,Nor tell thee how I shocked the "Bee"By breaking forth in song.
Two orthographic youths arose,And dragged me from the room,Despite my wild and aimless blows,Into the outer gloom.
With force, and tender soothing tonesThey led me from the hall,And laid me on the cold, cold stonesBeneath the bare brick wall.
They spread for me no blanket warm.No cloak or 'possum-rug,And peelers bore my helpless formIn triumph to the "Jug."
Next day I found the "summons-sheet"A blanket cold indeed;I felt that liberty was sweet,I wanted to be freed:
But peelers' hearts are solid rock,They wouldn't hear me speak,They dragged me to the felon's dockBefore a hook-nosed "beak."
He offered me—that hook-nosed "beak"—The option of a fine,In place of many a weary weekOf punishment condign.
I mutely pointed to my Sire,The fount of my supplies,And then bereft of joy I leftThe court with tearful eyes.
I could not read again and liveThe note I got 'ere long,From Polly's single relativeAnent my goings on.
She told me it would be as wellOur intercourse should cease—That one who drank, and couldn't spellShould never have her niece.
She recommended frugal fare,And lexicons, and pumps,But when I think of Polly's hairMy own comes out in lumps!
Oh! tell me not a "spelling-bee's"A sweet and pleasant thing;I've drunk of sorrow's bitter lees—I've felt that insect's sting.
My hopes are dead, despair hath spreadO'er me its blackest pall;The honey and the wine of life.Are turned to bitter gall.
Although I'm barely twenty-oneMy crop of care is ripe!No joy have I in moon or sun,Or in my meerchaum pipe.
Oh! where are now the happy days,When first I learnt to smoke?When life seemed one long holiday—Existence but a joke?
When I'd no other thought or careExcept my cane to gnaw,And train the soft incipient hairThat grew upon my jaw?
They've passed away those happy dayAnd now I only craveA brief, brief life—an early death,A requiem, and a grave.
And billiards now I never play;Not long my father willBe troubled by me to defrayThat tailor's lengthened bill.
I never wink at bar-maids now,But soberly I treadAs walketh one whose home's amongThe cold and silent dead.
One debt lies heavy on my breastI'd like to pay but can't;I'd like, before I go to rest,To settle Polly's aunt.
I hope they'll take her where the timeCounts not by days and weeks—The place of which 'tis wrong to rhyme,And no one ever speaks!
'Tis where the letters that she loves—The consonants and vow'ls—Are melted down in patent stoves,And moulded into howls!