Classic Poem

Shining patent-leather,
Tie of spotless white;
Through the muddy weather,
Rushing round till night.
Gutters all o'erflowing,
Like Niagara falls;
Bless me! this is pleasant,
Making New Year's calls.

Rushing up the door-step.
Ringing at the bell—
“Mrs. Jones receive to-day?”
“Yes, sir.” “Very well.”
Sending in your pasteboard,
Waiting in the halls,
Bless me! this is pleasant,
Making New Year's calls.

Skipping in the parlor,
Bowing to the floor,
Lady of the house there,
Half-a-dozen more;
Ladies' dresses gorgeous,
Paniers, waterfalls,
Bless me! this is pleasant,
Making New Year's calls.

“Wish you Happy New Year”—
“Many thanks, I'm sure.”
“Many calls, as usual?”
“No; I think they're fewer.”
Staring at the carpet,
Gazing at the walls;
Bless me, this is pleasant,
Making New Year's calls.

“Really, I must go now,
Wish I had more leisure.”
“Won't you have a glass of wine?”
“Ah, thanks!—greatest pleasure.”
Try to come the graceful,
Till your wine-glass falls;
Bless me! this is pleasant,
Making New Year's calls.

Hostess looks delighted—
Out of doors you rush;
Sit down at the crossing,
In a sea of slush.
Job here for your tailor—
Herr Von Schneiderthals—
Bless me! this is pleasant,
Making New Year's calls.

Pick yourself up slowly
Heart with anguish torn.
Sunday-go-to-meetings
In a state forlorn.
Kick a gibing boot-black,
Gibing boot-black bawls,
Bless me! this is pleasant,
Making New Year's calls.

Home, and woo the downy,
But your soul doth quake,
At most fearful night-mares—
Turkey, oysters, cake.
While each leaden horror
That your rest appals,
Cries, “Dear heart! how pleasant;
Making New Year's calls.”