Bells and Pomegranates.
viii.
Or, my scrofulous French novel,
On grey paper with blunt type!
Simply glance at it, you grovel
Hand and foot in Belial's gripe.
If I double down its pages
At the woeful sixteenth print,
When he gathers his greengages,
Ope a sieve and slip it in't?
Or, my scrofulous French novel,
On grey paper with blunt type!
Simply glance at it, you grovel
Hand and foot in Belial's gripe.
If I double down its pages
At the woeful sixteenth print,
When he gathers his greengages,
Ope a sieve and slip it in't?
ix.
Or, the Devil!—one might venture
Pledge one's soul yet slily leave
Such a flaw in the indenture
As he'd miss till, past retrieve,
Blasted lay that rose-acacia
We're so proud of! Hy, Zy, Hine . . .
St, there's Vespers! Plena gratiâ
Ave, Virgo! Gr-r-r—you swine!
Or, the Devil!—one might venture
Pledge one's soul yet slily leave
Such a flaw in the indenture
As he'd miss till, past retrieve,
Blasted lay that rose-acacia
We're so proud of! Hy, Zy, Hine . . .
St, there's Vespers! Plena gratiâ
Ave, Virgo! Gr-r-r—you swine!
144
