The comic valentine writer/Ladies
THE LADIES'
COMIC VALENTINE WRITER.
Doubtless you're glad to sell your heart,
But who d'ye think will buy it?
I'm sure at least that I'm not one,
At all disposed to try it.
That ugly, apish, bloated face; that skin
As pale as maccaroni;
That stock, corazza shirt, cloth boots,
And slip slop taglioni.
To some one else, my Valentine,
Go sell them, if you can, sir;
Whenever I a husband want,
You shall not be my man, sir.
Look at your glass, you quizzing elf,
And there behold your ape-like self;
The portrait you will find so like,
I think it must your notice strike:
You only want a tail, I vow,
Your full relationship to show.
You say that you for love are dying,
And wasted quite by amorous sighing:
To this your form the facts betray,
For you grow lustier every day.
No one will take you for a Cupid,
With checks so fat and visage stupid;
Leave courtship off, to drink incline,
You look a sot, my Valentine;
Believe me, I am not in jest,
That character will suit you best,
Teaze me no more with amorous letters,
For know, good sir, I seek your betters.
When squinting eyes shall please the sight,
And peaked nose shall give delight,
And screwed-up mouth, and wrinkled face,
Be deemed in Cupid's court a grace,
You then may to the church incline
With some enchanting Valentine.
Thou breaker of the rules of sense;
A studied beau, a very fool:
To wit or wisdom no pretence,
But merely thou art Folly's tool!
Thou'lt ne'er be loved by woman-kind,
They won't to thee incline;
No one like you was e'er designed,
To be a Valentine.
Fling by your frippery, if you can,
And act and look just like a man.
I thought you honest and sincere,
But you're a hypocrite, I hear;
I thought you had delightful hair,
But 'tis a wig, as they declare.
I thought some sense you'd gain'd at school,
But now I find you are a fool;
I thought you wealthy, but, they say,
Your tradesmen's bills you cannot pay;
I thought that honour was your plan,
But fear you are a dangerous man.
O wear large trowsers—'tis a plan
Best suits a bow-legg'd gentleman;
I'd almost swear—be in no passion—
'Twas such an one set up that fashion;
Your legs are odious—only view them,
A wheelbarrow could sure go through them;
If ever Valentine you make me,
It is to Bow Church you shall take me.
'Tis Valentine's day, so I cannot intrude,
You know we're allowed now to write
To them that we love, and I fix upon you,—
Whom I think of by day, and dream of by night;
I truly am thine, if your heart is but free,
And you to my suit will incline,
An answer I ask by return of the post,
So send me a smart Valentine.
When talking of love and all that,
I think you've been drinking much wine,
And fear, notwithstanding your chat,
The bottle is your Valentine.
No Valentine truly you need,
Except you can tippling decline;
When sober, you'd cry out, Indeed,
The glass made me think her divine!
To what absurdity will go,
Your pretty figure, sir, I show,
All maccaronies you surpass,—
What an improvement on an ass!
'Tis given to the modern donkey,
For to outshine the apish monkey,
To be the butt of ridicule,
The word is coarse—to be a fool.
Go be an old bachelor, live by yourself,
There's nobody's reason to care:
The lines that I sent you were only in fun,
So I shall not die of despair.
Think not that I do
Love a ninny like you—
No, believe me my dear Valentine,
I only intended to make you a jest,
And frankly avow my design.
Why, how now, pray, what's here to do?
You're in a pet, my dashing beau!
Your stays will hurt you I'm afraid,
They are so very tightly made:
You call me fickle,—I deny
The silly charge, and thns reply:—
Encouragement I never gave you,
Or ever meant, poor thing! to have you:
Give me a man who has some spirit:
Possessed of wit, and worth, and merit.
The world can spare you, silly elf,
So pray make haste, and hang yourself;
The gaping mob will flock to see
A gaby dangling on a tree;
'Twould be a very curious sight,
And would, I own, give me delight.
Of all the dandies in this town,
That e'er I set an eye on,
In each degree from high to low,
You are the dandy lion.
Your hair is like a lion's mane,
When stiffened out by passion;
Your look as furious—your dress
Most furiously in fashion.
Yet spite of all your furious looks,
It is a whim of mine,
A dandy lion to select,
To be my Valentine.
"A Valentine," I hear you say:
"A Valentine, I vow,"
Oh, dear, I'm half inclined to laugh,
But let me read it now.
What's this? "Your rat-trap of a mouth,
Your eyes that roll about,
Real goggle eyes, as large as eggs,
And ready to pop out;
"The bacon colour of your skin,"—
I’m sure, sir, that’s not true;
I only wish I had you here,
I’d beat you black and blue.
How high and haughtily you hold that saucy head and face,
As though you thought yourself the first of all the tulip race.
Your dress, I own, is gay indeed; your trowsers, stock, and waistcoat,
Are of the brighest colours each; and when you’ve on your best coat,
You are, indeed, a tulip, then; no other half so fine—
My tulip!—you alone must be, my own true Valentine!
I ask if my partner you’ll be,
In the dance of St. Valentine’s day;
A dance which fills many with glee,
But others it fills with dismay.
Methinks you consider and say,
"A dance! be your partner! oh, lod, oh,
The figure!—what is it I pray!"
Oh, then it is—Non-mi-Ricordo!
Away! no such partners for me,
For I the forgetful decline;
No Non-mi-Ricordo can be
A constant and fond Valentine.
In a newspaper lately this notice was seen,
Lost—A nondescript animal, something between
A man and a monkey—who mimics the beau,
And is dressed â la mode from the top to the toe;
Who although on his face not a hair ever grew,
Wears a beard, a moustache, and imperial too;
Who’s constantly smoking vile penny cheroots,
Wears Brougham trowsers and French leather boots;
A shirt pin, which no one who's seen it, denies
Is as large as the knob of a poker in size:
A huge cable chain down his bosom to match,
Which secures a pin-cushion in lieu of a watch;
Who carries a whip and an eye-glass combined,
Like one who could ride and was almost purblind;
For the rest—but enough—I've this Valentine sent,
Supposing no other but you could be meant.
And so you think, because you vow,
That you're to be believed?
Oh! flatter not thus yourself, now,
I'm not so soon deceived.
I've heard enough—I've seen enough,
To put me on my guard—
I know full well your fulsome stuff,
Is empty as your word.
Now let me give a hint, good sir,—
Such trifling ways leave off,
Lest you become, both far and near,
A bye-word and a scoff.
This Valentine to you I've sent,
A negative to compliment;
A portrait of yourself to view,
You can't mistake, it is too true.
Lately I saw, with horror and dismay,
An uncouth animal, which crossed my way:
Or dog, or man, or whether both it were:
At the first sight I could not well declare.
Close as I gazed at this outlandish elf,
At length—amazed! I found it was yourself;
Your's were those eyes, and your's that hair I saw,
That hair as straggling, and as coarse as straw,
Your's was that beard, and your's that whiskered brush,
As stiff and bristly as a blacking-brush.
But wherefore need I specify the rest,
Since, just above, your portrait is exprest.
Look at it—trace it in each faithful line,
'Tis evidently yours, my Valentine.
Yes, kneel, man, kneel, and look sheepishly wise,
And force a few tears through your crocodile eyes,
From your heart of steel;
Then look like a hypocrite—just what you are,
In the posture, but not in the spirit of prayer;
Still kneel, man, kneel!
And smite, man, smite your treacherous breast,
Whilst swearing, as usual, you vow and protest
That your heart is right:
But remember, last year, you did just the same,
And swore that your heart it was all in a flame;
So smite, man, smite!
And weep, man, weep, till your cheeks are sore
With the briny fluid, that shall rapidly pour
From your eyes so fine:
Yet when, man, when you've done smiting and kneeling,
Weeping, sighing, and dying, with exquisite feeling,
You'll ne'er be mine.
Ah! Simon Selfish, lack-a-day,
Methinks I hear the people say,
Here comes the sorry elf,
The man who rarely gets a bone
To pick, but chums his crust alone,
That moulders on the shelf.
Behold him in his nook, I ween,
Where any thing but comfort's seen,
Around his dingy hole;
Anon he darns his tatter'd hose,
Or cleans a napkin for his nose,
The groom of his own stool!
'Tis passing strange, the secret's out,
Why who would pair with such a lout,
With ideas unrefin'd;—
Neglected and despis'd you live,
While inly to yourself you grieve,
The fair are so unkind.
It was nature, not art, that made man:
'Tis the tailor the exquisite made;
For you'd be an ourang-outang,
Were it not for the art of that trade.
Hog's bristles bedizen that face,
You would frighten Old Nick with those eyes;
In your nose the brown sausage we trace,
And there's a sweet mouth for mince pies!
Your manners, truly, are beguiling,
You captivate therewith;
I guess, though, why your always smiling,—
To show your pretty teeth.
How many by your charms are smitten?
'Tis you their verses show,
By whom, though, are those verses written?
From thy dear self they flow.
I know you boast how many ladies
Have sent you Valentines;
Remember, when you next upbraid us,
To show your friends these lines.
You are the man, sir, whom my heart
Hails as a man of fame:
The secret, then, must I impart?
I wish to change my name.
To change your name! with great surprise,
Methinks you now exclaim—
'Tis true—but here the secret lies—
My wish is for your name.
Say, then, dear sir, if you'll agree,
Shall we exchange our hearts?
Hence, ceremony, love is free,
And scorns punctilious arts.
Pray don't be bashful, dearest sir;
You see that fault's not mine;
An answer quickly send, and say,
You'll be my Valentine.
Though a female of spirit, I am not inclined
To go after the Devil, a husband to find,
For I fear if with you I a bargain should strike,
I might have a reception more warm than I like,
Since 'tis very well known to us poor little souls,
You love to be "calling us over the coals;"
Though my heart's in a flame, yet I cannot design
My whole body's consumption for such, Valentine.
Perchance, when just about to dine,
I've seen that awful face of thine,
All white and yellow, studded o'er,
With half a hundred knobs, or more;
And thought I saw, at that same hour,
In thy rough phiz—a cauliflower;
A cauliflower phiz, hast thou,
There's no disputing that, I vow;
So, with some melted butter cup,
We'll boil, and dish, and serve it up,
And send it, when all that's been done,
To good St. Valentine—for fun;
'Twill make the old saint laugh, at least,
To see that phiz of your's, at feast.
I am not, sir, Paulina Pry, nor wish I to intrude:
But this is now St. Valentine, and I'm in scribbling mood.
Pray, are you, sir, in love, or not? what's more, in love with me?
Pray, answer, for I'll frankly own I feel a love for thee.
Love has dropt in,—I know not how,—so, 'tis my heart's design
To choose you, sir, to be my beau, my constant Valentine.
What eyes, mouth, and nose! who d'ye think, would incline
To choose such an object for—Sweet Valentine.
From such a grim figure, I'm sure, any day,
I can't wonder Cupid is riding away.
E'en the donkey he rides appears frightened to see
An ugly old fellow, so much uglier than he.
To send me a heart would be labour in vain,
For soon you would have it, old sir, back again.
Sir, I must own, you're one in ten,
And though I've hatred sworn to men,
Your proposition comes so pat,
For you I'll turn away my cat;
And at your pleasure be conveyed,
To church, your most obedient maid.
I recognise your pumpkin face, your features rudely chisselled, sir,
Your eye-glass and Manilla cane, your whiskers well be-frizzled, sir,
I saw you lounging in the Park, adjacent to the river fine,
And purposed, ever since that day, to send you, sir, this Valentine.
'Tis well that you contrive to hide
In cloak your ugly body,
I'd have you get a mask, beside,
You look so like a noddy.
In spite of all your darts and flames,
No damsel, sure, inclines
To such a fright, but those queer dames
Who can't get Valentines.
Do not, sir, again intrude,
In writing unto me;
Your offer, sir, I must exclude,
I cannot think of thee.
You love profess,—but well, I know,
Inconstancy is thine;
You soon would leave me, and would go
Unto some other shrine.
At poetry I'm not expert,
Yet this I can explain;
With you I have no wish to flirt,
Adieu, my roving swain.
You are indeed most brazen faced,
And fiery red's your hair,
The sunflower can alone with thee,
In these respects, compare.
The sunflower ever to the sun,
His face turns, lovingly,
But I will smack that face of thine,
If so 'tis turned to me.
Adieu to thee, thy brassy hair,
Thy bold and brazen phiz;
I choose you for my Valentine,
Because you're such a quiz.
Oh! what two delightful creatures.—
Who in London ean compare,
Either in their form or features,—
With so exquisite a pair.
Cupid on a jackass riding,
Points your road out with his dart,
Stuck through what he's just been buying—
At the butcher's shop,—a heart;
Whilst two donkies there behind you,
Portraits of yourselves, we view,
Braying sweetly, both together,
All about their love—like you;
Doubtless, you'll rejoice sincerely,
When you read these friendly lines,
And will thank me for your portraits,
Sent upon Saint Valentine's.
Tempt me no more with your vain forms,
Your nonsense, or your trembling lyre;
Of men like you I have known swarms;
So cease, nor to my hand aspire;
I tell you plainly, Faney's wing,
And your imaginary toys,
To me are nearly the same thing;
The same unmeaning useless toys.
When as Aurora gilds the morn,
I rise from my soft, my peaceful bed,
I bless the time when I was born
To choose the man I'd wish to wed,
But as that's neither thee nor thine,
I will not be thy Valentine.
Bad enough to be called an old maid,
But who would a bachelor be;
Who coddles himself upon slops,
Wine and whey, water gruel, and tea.
On the poor timid cat or the dog,
He vents his ill-humour and spite;
The cat runs away,—but the dog
Politely replies with—a bite.
Such a one as I just have described,
Whose portrait above meets the view:
(St. Valentine bids me declare)
Such an one, Mr. Coddle, are you.
At writing verse I'm no great scholar,
But here are wristbands and a collar;
And since a shirt is not the fashion,
With what I've sent you may now dash on;
A pair of stays that's nice and long,
Fully boned, and very strong;
A smelling bottle, nerves for bracing,
Lest you should faint with too tight lacing;
Some pins, some dowlass, and a glass,
So you an exquisite may pass;
Some mended stockings, cut in half,
With which you may adorn the calf,
And gratitude must e'er be thine,
For such a help, my Valentine.
For me to write first to declare an odd passion,
Is an odd thing, I know, but odd things are in fashion:
I have an odd heart, pray let me have thine,
And we'll make an odd pair, my odd Valentine.
We'll be odd and merry, not needing odd weather,
And ne'er have odd tempers when we are together;
But be oddly merry, and true to our vows;
And love no odd person so well as our spouse.
Pray send an odd line, if you like my odd plan,
Remember a bachelor is an odd man.