  Within the Square we both abide, An artist I, an heiress you, My studio like my work is skied, 'Tis sitting-room and studio too. Your chimney-pots I can descry, I look across the leafy Square. I think of you, I wonder why Your uncle is a millionaire! I've pictured you in chalks and oils, I like you best in misty grey, Your nameless charm my pencil spoils, Yet strives for ever to portray. By day I turn you to the wall Lest idle gazers should surprise; But when night gathers I recall, I look into your dreaming eyes. So many things I cared about, And now they all have fallen flat, While I, Bohemian out and out, Have been to buy a better hat, In lieu of one of dusky green Upon my coat paint splashes shine. Endeavouring to get it clean I've rubbed it hard with turpentine Till my head ached, my heart was faint, And I was utterly undone, I cannot rub away the paint, I can't afford another one. They have a murky yellow shade, My collars once so white; and frail, And at the wristbands sadly frayed My solitary swallow-tail! That dinner-party where we met! We seemed to meet like friends of old, And both to utterly forget The bitter barrier of gold. Oh, by your eyes, your wistful mien, I know for wealth you do not care, I know you wish you had not been Related to a millionaire! The starlit night is deepening, Hushed are the footsteps of the folk, My window open wide I fling, And one enchanted pipe I smoke, And on the misty vapour blue, Across the Square my fancies float; And oh, so near, so near to you, And oh, so bitterly remote! I talk to you of many things, My pipe I unaware refill, I wonder if our thoughts have wings, I wonder, are you waking still? And should I, if your house took fire, Have time to hurry to your aid, To rescue you from peril dire, Before swooped down the Fire Brigade. There has sprung up a pleasant breeze After the day's dustladen air, And it is blowing in the trees Within the garden in the Square. Oh, gentle wind—I may not speak, Wind from the West, I may not tell. Across the Square my lady seek, And bid her dream I love her well! Polite Police in Egypt.—The Anglo-Egyptian Police are to be converted into a civil force. Will Police Professors of Politeness be sent over from England to give lectures on civility? Motto for any Authors writing Plays for the Garrick Theatre.—"Keep your Hare on!" |
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