Atalanta in Camden-town

AY, ’t was here, on this spot,

In that summer of yore,

Atalanta did not

Vote my presence a bore,

Nor reply, to my tenderest talk, “She had heard all that nonsense before.”

She’d the brooch I had bought

And the necklace and sash on,

And her heart, as I thought,

Was alive to my passion;

And she’d done up her hair in the style that the Empress had brought into fashion.

I had been to the play

With my pearl of a Peri—

But, for all I could say,

She declared she was weary,

That “the place was so crowded and hot, and she could n’t abide that Dundreary.”

Then I thought, “’T is for me

That she whines and she whimpers!”

And it soothed me to see

Those sensational simpers,

And I said, “This is scrumptious!”—a phrase I had learned from the Devonshire shrimpers.

And I vowed, “’T will be said

I’m a fortunate fellow

When the breakfast is spread,

When the topers are mellow,

When the foam of the bride-cake is white, and the fierce orange blossoms are yellow!”

Oh, that languishing yawn!

Oh, those eloquent eyes!

I was drunk with the dawn

Of a splendid surmise—

I was stung by a look, I was slain by a tear, by a tempest of sighs.

And I whispered, “’T is time!

Is not love at its deepest!

Shall we squander life’s prime,

While thou waitest and weepest?

Let us settle it, license or banns?—though undoubtedly banns are the cheapest.”

“Ah, my Hero,” said I,

“Let me be thy Leander!”

But I lost her reply—

Something ending with “gander”—

For the omnibus rattled so loud that no mortal could quite understand her.