The Poetry Collections of Lewis Carroll. Lewis Carroll

      ’Tis a melancholy song, and it will not keep you long, Tho I specs it will work upon your feelings very strong, For the agonising moans of Miss Arabella Jones Were warranted to melt the hearts of any paving stones.

      Simon Smith was tall and slim, and she doted upon him, But he always called her Miss Jones—he never got so far, As to use her Christian name—it was too familiar.

      When she called him “Simon dear” he pretended not to hear, And she told her sister Susan he behaved extremely queer, Who said, “Very right! very right! Shews his true affection.

      If you’d prove your Simon’s love follow my direction.

      I’d certainly advise you just to write a simple letter, And to tell him that the cold he kindly asked about is better.

      And say that by the tanyard you will wait in loving hope, At nine o’clock this evening if he’s willing to elope With his faithful Arabella.”

      So she wrote it, & signed it, & sealed it, & sent it, & dressed herself out in her holiday things.

      With bracelets & brooches, & earrings, & necklace, a watch, & an eyeglass, & diamond rings, For man is a creature weak and impressible, thinks such a deal of appearance, my dear.

      So she waited for her Simon beside the tanyard gate, regardless of the pieman, who hinted it was late.

      Waiting for Simon, she coughed in the chilly night, until the tanner found her, And kindly brought a light old coat to wrap around her.

      She felt her cold was getting worse,

      Yet still she fondly whispered, “Oh, take your time, my Simon, although I’ve waited long.

      I do not fear my Simon dear will fail to come at last, Although I know that long ago the time I named is past.

      My Simon! My Simon! Oh, charming man! Oh, charming man!

      Dear Simon Smith, sweet Simon Smith.”

      Oh, there goes the church-clock, the town-clock, the station-clock and there go the other clocks, they are all striking twelve!

      Oh, Simon, it is getting late, it’s very dull to sit and wait.

      And really I’m in such a state, I hope you’ll come at any rate, quite early in the morning, quite early in the morning.

      Then with prancing bays & yellow chaise, we’ll away to Gretna Green.

      For when I am with my Simon Smith—oh, that common name! Oh that vulgar name!

      I shall never rest happy till he’s changed that name, but when he has married me, maybe he’ll love me to that degree, that he’ll grant me my prayer And will call himself “Clare”— So she talked all alone, as she sat upon a stone, Still hoping he would come and find her, and she started most unkimmon, when instead of darling “Simmon” ’twas a strange man that stood behind her, Who civilly observed “Good evening, M’am,

      I really am surprised to see that you’re out here alone, for you must own from thieves you’re not secure.

      A watch, I see. Pray lend it me (I hope the gold is pure).

      And all those rings, & other things—Don’t scream, you know, for long ago The policeman off from his beat has gone.

      In the kitchen—” “Oh, you desperate villain! Oh, you treacherous thief!”

      And these were the words of her anger and grief.

      “When first to Simon Smith I gave my hand I never could have thought he would have acted half so mean as this, And where’s the new police? Oh, Simon, Simon! how could you treat your love so ill?”

      They sit & chatter, they chatter with the cook, the guardians, so they’re called, of public peace.

      Through the tanyard was heard the dismal sound, “How on earth is it policemen never, never, never, can be found?”