. The choice works of Thomas Hood, in prose and verse. 2 K 562 THERES NO ROMANCE IN THAT. I liave not any grief profound, Or seciets to confess; ?^!y story would not fetcli a pound Fi>r A. K. Newmans press; In.^tead of looking thin and pale, Im growing red and fat, As if I lived on beef and ale— Theie s no Romance in that ! Its very hard, by land or sea Some strange event I court. But nothing ever comes to me Thats worth a pens report : It really made my temper chafe, Each coast that I was at, 1 vowd and raild, and came home safe—Theres no Romance in that ? The only time I had a chance, At
. The choice works of Thomas Hood, in prose and verse. 2 K 562 THERES NO ROMANCE IN THAT. I liave not any grief profound, Or seciets to confess; ?^!y story would not fetcli a pound Fi>r A. K. Newmans press; In.^tead of looking thin and pale, Im growing red and fat, As if I lived on beef and ale— Theie s no Romance in that ! Its very hard, by land or sea Some strange event I court. But nothing ever comes to me Thats worth a pens report : It really made my temper chafe, Each coast that I was at, 1 vowd and raild, and came home safe—Theres 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 — Theres 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-—Theres no Romance in that!. Tom Bowling. He is not dark, he is not forelieads rather low,fl IS not pensive—not at all,But smiles hu teeth to show ; Ho comes from Wales, and yet in sizeIs really but a sandy hair and greyish eyes—Theres no Romance in that \ THERES NO ROMANCE IN THAT, 563 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 give up his cravat,Lord Byron-like—hes not a bard—Theres no Romance m that! Hes rather bald, his sight is weak. Hes deaf in either drum ; Without a lisp he cannot speak, But then—hes worth a plum. He talks of stocks and three per cents By way of private chat, Of Spanish bonds, and shares, rents—Theres no Romance m that! I sing—no matter what I sing, Di Tanti, or Crudel, Tom Bowhng, or God save the King, Di Piacer—Alls well ; He knows no more about a voice tor singmg than a gnat ; And a
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