Miss Mantrap

Anna Maria Mantrap Don't set your cap at me, For do I not know your age is Precisely forty-three? For when I was twenty, Anna, Then you were twenty, too. Do you think I didn't find that out Before I proposed to you? Go to your mirror, Anna, Shake those false curls, and say— 'The beauty which once lured Chutney Is faded indeed away!'

Three and twenty Aprils Have fled since that April night, When you and I were together All under the sweet star-light. The fireflies flitted round us, The air was cool and calm; We could see the broad moon rising, Through the stems of a grove of palm. The garden trees around us Sigh'd, as the wind swept by; And the road-side casuarinas Sent back a softer sigh. You stoop'd, and pick'd me a posy,— Ah me, I have it yet! 'Twas a little rose-bud, circled By sprigs of mignonette. The dewy myrtles glistened, As my eyes—with other dew; The trelliced jasmine trembled, As my heart in its love for you! 'Twas then, as the rising moonlight. On your sweet face softly glow'd,— 'Twas then that the words of my passion, And tears of my yearning flowed. I think you liked me, Anna? But my pay was a little too low, So "ask Papa," was your answer, —Which led to a final NO.

Anna, I know I've altered. But do not you forget That when I sought your favours You were a young brunette: Your form, through the ball-room flitting, Had an exquisite, infinite grace; And your splendid tresses o'ershadow'd A tender and eloquent face. But now? Ah Anna Maria, Is it nothing for ladies to see The dawn of an April morning Which welcomes them forty-three?

I've grown much stouter—I know it, But I can't have fall'n off like you:— Anna, do you know your complexion Has taken a muddy hue? I see that you paint and powder: I think padded dresses you wear? And I know those luxurious ringlets, And plaits, are simply false hair! That your hands are skinny, I notice;— They are shrivell'd under the rings. Yes, and lately you told me, "low dresses Are very indecent things!" I quite understand you, Anna: I trust you understand me? Mayhap, love's blind at twenty,— He isn't at forty-three!

So it's no use now, I assure you, To sigh whenever we meet; To beckon to me at the Bandstand, To ogle at me in the street;— To seat you in Church close by me, And by many a look and sign To hint you've forgotten your prayer-book, So would like to look over mine;— To press my hand when you shake it, To quote my own verses to me;— Heavens! Anna, my dear, do remember We are both of us forty-three!

I know you've had your offers In the days that are no more; There was SWELLINGTON at Trichy, There was CRABBE at Bangalore: But CRABBE was old and crusty, And SWELLINGTON, you knew, Was deep in debt, and wanted Your money, and not you. Next D. P. W. HARDUP, Next SWIG, with the D. T. Next wild JACK HARE, the Planter, Then miserable ME. And then your love's soft witchery Old COLONEL LIVER caged,— But when engaged to marry Stern death his thoughts engaged! The next and last proposal Came from a reverend gent, When grave ARCHDEACON TRIPLET Before your beauty bent. 'Take me,' he sigh'd, 'ten cherubs My former help-meet bore,— And three times running, lately I dreamt I had a score!' But him, too, you rejected And scorn'd his pious flame, And sent the startled suitor Back, quicker than he came. And now—Ah Anna, Anna,— You strive again to hook This little worthless minnow You flung back into the brook!

I walk in my garden, Anna; The lilies glisten with dew: My heart grows softer towards you; There's a tear in my eye for you. I am thinking, sadly thinking, Of that night, so long ago; Of the living hopes that were mine, dear, Ere slain by that felon NO. I am dreaming, sadly dreaming, Had we been married, Ann, Would not you've been a better woman, And I a better man? God knows, but that something to pray for— The children about the knees— Might have made you think less of dresses, And made me think less of rupees; That something to work for, to hope for, Ay, and to weep for, too, Might have made me of self less careless, And have raised and strengthen'd you.

Enough! These are moonlight fancies: The reality—look at that! You are old and thin, dear Anna, And I am old and fat. Can birds build nests in winter? Or make honey, in winter, the bee? Come then—don't ogle. Remember We are both of us forty-three!