NUMBER ONE. VERSIFIED FROM THE PROSE OF A YOUNG LADY.

IT’S very hard!—and so it is, To live in such a row, And witness this that every Miss But me, has got a Beau. For Love goes calling up and down, But here he seems to shun; I’m sure he has been asked enough To call at Number One! I’m sick of all the double knocks That come to Number Four! At Number Three, I often see A Lover at the door: And one in blue, at Number Two, Calls daily like a dun,— It’s very hard they come so near And not to Number One! Miss Bell I hear has got a dear Exactly to her mind, By sitting at the window pane Without a bit of blind; But I go in the balcony, Which she has never done, Yet arts that thrive at Number Five Don’t take at Number One! ’Tis hard with plenty in the street, And plenty passing by,— There’s nice young men at Number Ten, But only rather shy; And Mrs. Smith across the way Has got a grown-up son, But la! he hardly seems to know There is a Number One! There’s Mr. Wick at Number Nine, But he’s intent on pelf, And though he’s pious, will not love His neighbour as himself. At Number Seven there was a sale— The goods had quite a run! And here I’ve got my single lot On hand at Number One! My mother often sits at work And talks of props and stays, And what a comfort I shall be In her declining days. The very maids about the house Have set me down a nun; The Sweethearts all belong to them That call at Number One! Once only when the flue took fire, One Friday afternoon, Young Mr. Long came kindly in And told me not to swoon: Why can’t he come again without The Phœnix and the Sun! We cannot always have a flue On fire at Number One! I am not old! I am not plain! Nor awkward in my gait— I am not crooked, like the bride That went from Number Eight: I’m sure white satin made her look As brown as any bun— But even beauty has no chance, I think, at Number One! At Number Six they say Miss Rose Has slain a score of hearts, And Cupid, for her sake, has been Quite prodigal of darts. The Imp they show with bended bow, I wish he had a gun! But if he had, he’d never deign To shoot with Number One. It’s very hard, and so it is To live in such a row! And here a ballad singer comes To aggravate my woe. Oh take away your foolish song And tones enough to stun— There is “Nae luck about the house,” I know, at Number One!