A Piteous Plaint

I cannot eat my porridge,

  I weary of my play;

No longer can I sleep at night,

  No longer romp by day!

Though forty pounds was once my weight,

  I'm shy of thirty now;

I pine, I wither and I fade

  Through love of Martha Clow.

As she rolled by this morning

  I heard the nurse girl say:

"She weighs just twenty-seven pounds

  And she's one year old to-day."

I threw a kiss that nestled

  In the curls upon her brow,

But she never turned to thank me—

  That bouncing Martha Clow!

She ought to know I love her,

  For I've told her that I do;

And I've brought her nuts and apples,

  And sometimes candy, too!

I'd drag her in my little cart

  If her mother would allow

That delicate attention

  To her daughter, Martha Clow.

O Martha! pretty Martha!

  Will you always be so cold?

Will you always be as cruel

  As you are at one-year-old?

Must your two-year-old admirer

  Pine as hopelessly as now

For a fond reciprocation

  Of his love for Martha Clow?

You smile on Bernard Rogers

  And on little Harry Knott;

You play with them at peek-a-boo

  All in the Waller Lot!

Wildly I gnash my new-cut teeth

  And beat my throbbing brow,

When I behold the coquetry

  Of heartless Martha Clow!

I cannot eat my porridge,

  Nor for my play care I;

Upon the floor and porch and lawn

  My toys neglected lie;

But on the air of Halsted street

  I breathe this solemn vow:

"Though

she

be

false

,

I

will be true

  To pretty Martha Clow!"