TO MY BRIDE.
(whoever she may be.)
OH! little maid!—(I do not know your name
Or who you are, so, as a safe precaution
I'll add)—Oh, buxom widow! married dame!
(As one of these must be your present portion)
Listen, while I unveil prophetic lore for you,
And sing the fate that Fortune has in store for you.
You'll marry soon—within a year or twain
A bachelor of circa two and thirty,
Tall, gentlemanly, but extremely plain,
And, when you're intimate, you'll call him "Bertie."
Neat—dresses well; his temper has been classified
As hasty; but he's very quickly pacified.
You'll find him working mildly at the Bar,
After a touch at two or three professions,
From easy affluence extremely far
A brief or two on Circuit—"soup" at Sessions;
A pound or two from whist, and backing horses,
And, say three hundred from his own resources.
