Punch / Almanack (1852)

roiieirs hmmkm for sss2,

Beside the year's dark portal

Jack Paost hath the porter's chair,
And closely he scans each mortal

Who seeketh entrance there;
Well-fed, well-clad, to dinner

In wealth unquestion'd goes ;
ftut your poor and shivering binner

He taketh by the nose.

With a grasp, as of a giant,

He will nip you an army dead ;
With a hand as a lady's pliant,

He will weave you a tiny thread.
Oh, bitter's the curse he mutters,

As through the streets he roams,
And, through chinks of close-barred shutters,

Hears mirth in fire-lit homes.

Then, from such doorways turning,

He seeks the poor man's hearth,
Whereon no fire is burning.

And chills his winter mirth,
But hard though the old boy's heart is,

He hath a social soul,
And he gives his winter parties

For a d^nce about the Pole.

THE TRUE LEGEND OF SAINT

VALENTINE.

lSt. Valentine wmaLady.—Mate, Valentin.
—Fem.y Valentine. Vide the " Huguenots.1'}

In the cold court of Saint Louis the coldest

maid, I ween,
Was the noblest and the loveliest, the Lady

Valentin e.
In vain love breathed about her, from hearts,

and lips, and eyes ;
She was blind to lovers' gazings, and deaf to

lovers' sighs.

The quantity of billets donx she got, quite

drore her wild;
Her toilet every morning with the horrid

things wai piled ;
They were on her plate at dinner; they

waylaid her on the stairs ;
She found them in her mass-book when she

knelt to 6ay her prayers.

There were twenty Knights adventurers,

that ever rode in arms,
To maintain against all corners this cruel

lady's charms ;
And scarce a day but one of them was

brought home on a bier ;
But, the cruel Ladt Valentine, she never

shed a tear.

Thua loved, but all unloving, Master Cupid
she defied,

(She fancied it was piety, but it was only
pride,)

Till tired of court and courtiers, she sought

the cloister's pale,
And calmly had her hair cut ofL, and calmly

took the veil.

" And now," she thought, " I've found the
life that fits a maiden pure,"

And she tried hard to look humble, but she
only looked demure;

She was sure of all the sisters to he earliest
at Matins,

And wore her sackcloth with more pride
than e'er she wore her satins.

But still, somehow or other, she never went
to bed,

But the thought of those sad billets doux
would come into her head ;

She missed them on her table, and un-
wittingly she sighed,

When, on opening her mass-book, she ne'er
found one inside.

She put on hair shirts, coarse

ever wore before ;
Much as she'd always flogged herself, she

flogged herself si ill more ,
Easting and penance she essayed, but it was

all in vain ;
Love would keep burning in her heart, and

boiling in her biain.

The Convent and the Country round were

filled with admiration
Of her tastings, and her floggings, and her

self-mortification;
They chose her for their Abbess, ere a year

and a day:

But the struggle was too much for her—she
slowly pined away.

One night unto her pallet side she called the

nuns, and said,
"No doubt they'll make a saint of me, as

soon as I am dead.
Remember, sisters, if they do, the patron

saint I '11 be
Of lovers and of ladies—who shall warning

take by me."

At this, the holy sisters looked perfectly

aghast;

Of all things in her sainted head they fancied

love the last;
But sadly Biuiled Saint Valentine—and

smiling so she died,
Eor well she knew how sore they rue who

battle love with pride.

Vol. 22.

Alk. (a)