A Piteous Plaint

I cannot eat my porridge,     I weary of my play;     No longer can I sleep at night,     No longer romp by day!     Though forty pounds was once my weight,     I'm shy of thirty now;     I pine, I wither and I fade     Through love of Martha Clow.     As she rolled by this morning     I heard the nurse girl say:     "She weighs just twenty-seven pounds     And she's one year old to-day."     I threw a kiss that nestled     In the curls upon her brow,     But she never turned to thank me--     That bouncing Martha Clow!     She ought to know I love her,     For I've told her that I do;     And I've brought her nuts and apples,     And sometimes candy, too!     I'd drag her in my little cart     If her mother would allow     That delicate attention     To her daughter, Martha Clow.     O Martha! pretty Martha!     Will you always be so cold?     Will you always be as cruel     As you are at one-year-old?     Must your two-year-old admirer     Pine as hopelessly as now     For a fond reciprocation     Of his love for Martha Clow?     You smile on Bernard Rogers     And on little Harry Knott;     You play with them at peek-a-boo     All in the Waller Lot!     Wildly I gnash my new-cut teeth     And beat my throbbing brow,     When I behold the coquetry     Of heartless Martha Clow!     I cannot eat my porridge,     Nor for my play care I;     Upon the floor and porch and lawn     My toys neglected lie;     But on the air of Halsted street     I breathe this solemn vow:     "Though she be false, I will be true     To pretty Martha Clow!"