* * * * *

"Love you?" said I, then I sighed, and then I gazed upon her
sweetly—
For I think I do this sort of thing particularly neatly—

"Tell me whither I may his me, tell me, dear one, that I may know—
Is it up the highest Andes? down a horrible volcano?"

But she said, "It isn't polar bears, or hot volcanic grottoes,
Only find out who it is that writes those lovely cracker mottoes."

Seven weary years I wandered—Patagonia, China, Norway,
Till at last I sank exhausted, at a pastrycook his doorway.

And he chirped and sang and skipped about, and laughed with
laughter hearty,
He was wonderfully active for so very stout a party.

And I said, "Oh, gentle pieman, why so very, very merry?
Is it purity of conscience, or your one-and-seven sherry?"

* * * * *

"Then I polish all the silver which a supper-table lacquers;
Then I write the pretty mottoes which you find inside the crackers."

"Found at last!" I madly shouted. "Gentle pieman, you astound me!"
Then I waved the turtle soup enthusiastically round me.

And I shouted and I danced until he'd quite a crowd around him,
And I rushed away, exclaiming, "I have found him! I have found him!"

W.S. Gilbert.