Classic Poem

O days of old, O days of Knights,
Of tourneys and of tilts,
When love was balked and valor stalked
On high heroic stilts —
Where are ye gone? — adventures cease,
The world gets tame and flat, —
We 've nothing now but New Police —
There's no romance in that!

I wish I ne'er had learned to read,
Or Radcliffe how to write;
That Scott had been a boor on Tweed,
And Lewis cloister'd quite!
Would I had never drunk so deep
Of dear Miss Porter's vat;
I only turn to life, and weep —
There's no Romance in that!

No Bandits lurk — no turbaned Turk
To Tunis bears me off —
I hear no noises in the night
Except my mother's cough, —
No Bleeding Spectre haunts the house,
No shape, — but owl or bat,
Come flitting after moth or mouse, —
There's no Romance in that!

I have not any grief profound,
Or secrets to confess,
My story would not fetch a pound
For A. K. Newman's press;
Instead of looking thin and pale,
I'm growing red and fat,
As if I lived on beef and ale —
There's no Romance in that!

It's very hard, by land or sea
Some strange event I court,
But nothing ever comes to me
That's worth a pen's report:
It really made my temper chafe,
Each coast that I was at,
I vowed, and railed, and came home safe, —
There's no Romance in that!

The only time I had a chance
At Brighton one fine day,
My chestnut mare began to prance,
Took fright, and ran away;
Alas! no Captain of the Tenth
To stop my steed came pat;
A Butcher caught the rein at length, —
There's no Romance in that!

Love — even love — goes smoothly on
A railway sort of track —
No flinty sire, no jealous Don!
No hearts upon the rack;
No Polydore, no Theodore —
His ugly name is Mat,
Plain Matthew Pratt and nothing more —
There's no Romance in that!

He is not dark, he is not tall, —
His forehead's rather low,
He is not pensive — not at all,
But smiles his teeth to show;
He comes from Wales and yet in size
Is really but a sprat;
With sandy hair and grayish eyes —
There's no Romance in that!

He wears no plumes or Spanish cloaks,
Or long-sword hanging down;
He dresses much like other folks,
And commonly in brown;
His collar he will not discard,
Or give up his cravat,
Lord Byron-like — he's not a Bard —
There's no Romance in that!

He 's rather bald, his sight is weak,
He 's deaf in either drum;
Without a lisp he cannot speak,
But then — he's worth a plum.
He talks of stocks and three per cents.
By way of private chat,
Of Spanish Bonds, and shares, and rents —
There's no Romance in that!

I sing — no matter what I sing,
Di Tanti — or Crudel,
Tom Bowling, or God save the King,
Di piacer — All's well;
He knows no more about a voice
For singing than a gnat —
And as to Music " has no choice " —
There's no Romance in that!

Of light guitar I cannot boast,
He never serenades;
He writes, and sends it by the post,
He doesn't bribe the maids:
No stealth, no hempen ladder — no!
He comes with loud rat-tat,
That startles half of Bedford Row —
There's no Romance in that!

He comes at nine in time to choose
His coffee — just two cups,
And talks with Pa about the news,
Repeats debates, and sups.
John helps him with his coat aright,
And Jenkins hands his hat;
My lover bows, and says good night —
There's no Romance in that!

I've long had Pa's and Ma's consent,
My Aunt she quite approves,
My Brother wishes joy from Kent,
None try to thwart our loves;
On Tuesday reverend Mr. Mace
Will make me Mrs. Pratt,
Of Number Twenty, Sussex Place —
There's no Romance in that!