Love unrequited, robs me of me rest,

Love, hopeless love, my ardent soul encumbers,

Love, nightmare like, lies heavy of me chest,

And weaves itself into my midnight slumbers.



When you're lying awake with a dismal headache and

repose is taboo'd by anxiety,

I conceive you may use any language you choose to

indulge in, without impropriety;

For your brain is on fire, the bed-clothes conspire of

usual slumber to plunder you:

First your counter-pane goes, and uncovers your toes,

and your sheet slips demurely from under you;

Then the blanketing tickles, you feel like mixed

pickles, so terribly sharp is the pricking,

And you're hot and you're cross, and you tumble and

toss 'til there's nothing 'twixt you and the

ticking.

Then the bed-clothes all creep to the ground in a heap

and you pick 'em all up in a tangle;

Next your pillow resigns and politely declines to

remain at it's usual angle!

Well, you get some repose in the form of a dose, with

hot eye-balls and head ever aching,

But your slumbering teems with such horrible dreams

that you'd very much better be waking;

For you dream you are crossing the Channel, and

tossing about in a steamer from Harwich,

Which is something between a large bathing machine and

a very small second class carriage,

And you're giving a treat (penny ice and cold meat) to

a party of friends and relations,

They're a ravenous horde, and they all come on board

at Sloane Square and South Kensington Stations.

And bound on that journey you find your attorney

(who started this morning from Devon);

He's a bit undersiz'd and you don't feel surpris'd

when he tells you he's only eleven.

Well you're driving l