And every year, as spring came round, With flow'rs of every hue, He'd cull the fairest of them all, And carry them to Sue. But all in vain for him to bring The sweetest buds of May; For cruel Susan still turned up Her nose at his nosegay.
Vainly in search of blossoms rare He wandered to and fro: She spurn'd them all; and every bloom To him was a fresh blow. And when he'd boast his pretty birds, Their songs and merry freaks, She'd say, "John Budd, I doesn't care A twopence for the beaks."
The fact was this, _another_ swain Had won fair Susan's heart— The fancy-bread man, Sammy Twist— For him she felt love's smart. And still, while "Oh! 'tis love, 'tis love!" Was running in John's head, Susanna Sims would sing, "Oh! tell Me where is _fancy bread_?"
No doubt it was a puzzling state To be in—that of Sue: The baker's man was very poor, John Budd was well to do. One hour she'd say, "I'll marry Sam;" Another, "No, I wont." Poor Susan Sims! Love whisper'd "_Dough_:" But Interest said "Don't."
At last Sue quite made up her mind In favour of the baker; And sent him word to say that he Might come next day and take her. Away they stole at early dawn: "And now, my pretty puss," Says he, "we'll have a cab." Says she, "No; I prefers a buss."
They get in one of Shillibeer's, And rode along Fleet Street, (So call'd, I am told, because in it You never _can_ go fleet,) When "Crikey! here's a pretty start! Vere _are_ you going, miss, Vith that ere married man?" sang out The tiger of the 'bus.
Then Susan gave a shriek, and fell Just like a piece of lumber; And Sammy blew the tiger up, And swore he'd take his number. And then Sue open'd half an eye, And cried, in accents crack'd, "Oh, Sam! how could you guilty be Of such a marriage act?"
Then Sammy for the Doctor ran— At least he told 'em so. He went: but as for coming back, Alas! it was "no go." And when at last poor Sue got home, As pale as any lily, She found a letter from John Budd: And thus ran Johnny's billy:—
"I seed you get into the 'bus, To be another's wife: And so resolved to go and end My wegetable life. I've tuk an ounce of pois'nous stuff; And when these lines you see, Dear Susan, I shall be no more— Alas!—
Oh, Charity! celestial _dame_!—I cannot call thee _maid_, While ev'ry year thy children clear make such a grand parade. Ah! 'tis a glorious sight to see thy little pauper brats Parade the streets of _Baby_lon like demi-drowned rats. Before the sun's begun to run, they're startled from their nest, And by their anxious mothers in the parish fin'ry dressed; And how those mothers' hearts must leap with gratitude to see Their offspring all so nicely clothed in that smart livery! The girls all clad in worsted gowns, mob caps, and aprons white, Like Lilliputian grandmothers,—a venerable sight: The boys in pretty blanket coats of green or brick-dust red, With tawny leather breeches, and a thrum cap on their head; And then that splendid pewter badge, worth all the rest beside; No medal worn by hero could inspire more honest pride. While to the neighbours they're a mark of pleasant observation, How must their happy mothers bless a parish education! It is so very handy too, when in a crowd they're brawling, To pick them out so easily, and save a world of bawling.