What 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 persuade

That girl to fancy me;

Thrice happy fate with such a mate

For life as Polly C———!

But then I can't without her aunt

That damsel ever see;

Why must there always be a "but"

Between my hopes and me?

And Polly C——— has got to be

Between 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 greased

My hair of late has been.

For her my feet are close compressed

In boots a deal too tight;

For her I sacrifice my rest,

And get no sleep at night;

For her I run that tailor's bill

That makes my father swear,

And to the grave I fear it will

Bring down his grizzled hair.

We met, but 'twas not in a crowd,

It was not at a ball,

Nor where cascades with thunder loud

From 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."

Original

'Twas there I marked the jetty coil

That crowned her classic head—

The perfumes of macassar oil

Were all around her shed.

And o'er the meaner spirits there

Her mighty soul arose;

Her intellect and genius were

Aspiring—like her nose.

And Polly was the fairest there—

'The goddess of the class—

Among the polysyllables

Unscathed I saw her pass.

Examiners with piercing eye,

And terror-striking frown

In vain to trip her up might try—

In vain to take her down.

She triumphs, and the loud applause

From roof to basement rings—

Each other girl with envy gnaws

Her hat and bonnet strings.

Sometimes (regardless of expense)

I dressed and went to church;

One glimpse of her would recompense

My eager longing search.

And, while the swelling organ rent

The air with solemn tunes,

On spelling-bees my thoughts were bent

And happy honeymoons.

And where I brooding sat alone

The wildest dreams I dreamt,

And swore to win her for my own

Or "bust' in the attempt.

We met at parties, and our toes

Whirl in the dreamy waltz,

And if at times a thought arose—

Could hair like that be false?

I sniffed the reassuring coil

That shamed the damask rose,

And could not breathe a thought disloyal

While that was near my nose.

Original

At length her aunt—the summer gone—

The influenza got;

To see my Polly to her home

It oft became my lot.

And if I took the longest way

The 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 wet

With rain and driving sleet,

And more than common risk beset

Pedestrians in the street.

From harm from wheel of cab or cart

I'd kept my darling free,

And in the fulness of her heart

She 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 behind

The spectacles she wore;

Of intellect and strength of mind

She had enough for four.

And tall her figure was, and spare,

And bony were her joints;

Orthography and grammar were

The strongest of her points.

A morbid taste this virgin chaste

For dictionaries had;

Though Polly C. might perfect be,

Her aunt was spelling mad.

I felt that if an angel bright

To earth from Oether fell,

She'd either give that Son of Light

Some 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 stars

Upon his downy wings.

Original

At Dr. Blank's academy,

I never took the lead;

My grammar and orthography

Were very weak indeed,

And oft those academic walls

Have echoed to my howls,

Responsive to the Doctor's calls

For 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 see

Impressed upon the mind,

Was certain very soon to be

Impressed in full behind.

But still, despite the scathing look,

And cane of Dr. Blank.

My spelling powers never took

An elevated rank.

And if my hopes of Polly hung

Upon so frail a thread,

My life was blighted 'ere begun—

My hopes, scarce born, were dead.

All silent through that evening meal

I sat with bended head,

And now and then a glance I steal

At 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 blast

Love's blossom in the bud?

For, ere one happy hour could pass,

That virgin grim and fell

Invited me to join the class

Where Polly went to spell;

And though I trembled in my shoes,

In hopeless agony,

Could I the aunt of her refuse

Whose spell was over me?

At length arrived the dreaded hour,

And primed with eau de vie,

I sought that orthographic bower

Where met the spelling-bee.

No hope of prizes lured me toward

Those hundred gleaming eyes,

For me there was but one reward,

And Polly was the prize.

For her my dull ambition leapt,

In literary lists

To cope with lunatics who slept

With "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 look

I eyed my pocket-flask,

And tempted by the spirit bright

That dwelt within its lips,

I put the contents out of sight

In two convulsive sips.

A stony-eyed examiner

Came 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 dissect

His body limb from limb.

But soon the spirit's subtle fume

Obfusticates my view;

The common objects of the room

Seem 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 fast

With wild convulsive pants,

I saw two Pollys, and alas!

A pair of Polly's Aunts!

I fail to solve the mystery

Which Polly I prefer,

But thought I'd like Polygamy

With duplicates of her.

Involved in intellectual gloom,

I found the A. B. C.

Had vanished, vanquished by the fumes

Of Henessey's P. B.

And when that stony-looking one

Applied 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.

Original

Two orthographic youths arose,

And dragged me from the room,

Despite my wild and aimless blows,

Into the outer gloom.

Original

With force, and tender soothing tones

They led me from the hall,

And laid me on the cold, cold stones

Beneath the bare brick wall.

They spread for me no blanket warm.

No cloak or 'possum-rug,

And peelers bore my helpless form

In 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 dock

Before a hook-nosed "beak."

He offered me—that hook-nosed "beak"—

The option of a fine,

In place of many a weary week

Of punishment condign.

I mutely pointed to my Sire,

The fount of my supplies,

And then bereft of joy I left

The court with tearful eyes.

I could not read again and live

The note I got 'ere long,

From Polly's single relative

Anent my goings on.

She told me it would be as well

Our intercourse should cease—

That one who drank, and couldn't spell

Should never have her niece.

She recommended frugal fare,

And lexicons, and pumps,

But when I think of Polly's hair

My 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 spread

O'er me its blackest pall;

The honey and the wine of life.

Are turned to bitter gall.

Although I'm barely twenty-one

My 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 care

Except my cane to gnaw,

And train the soft incipient hair

That grew upon my jaw?

They've passed away those happy day

And now I only crave

A brief, brief life—an early death,

A requiem, and a grave.

And billiards now I never play;

Not long my father will

Be troubled by me to defray

That tailor's lengthened bill.

I never wink at bar-maids now,

But soberly I tread

As walketh one whose home's among

The cold and silent dead.

One debt lies heavy on my breast

I'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 time

Counts 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!

Original