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Edward Lear - Eclogue:Composed at Cannes, December 9th, 1867
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(Interlocutors--Mr. Lear and Mr. and Mrs. Symonds.)

 Edwardus--What makes you look so black, so glum, so cross?
           Is it neuralgia, headache, or remorse?

 Johannes--What makes you look as cross, or even more so?
           Less like a man than is a broken Torso?

        E--What if my life is odious, should I grin?
           If you are savage, need I care a pin?

        J--And if I suffer, am I then an owl?
           May I not frown and grind my teeth and growl?

        E--Of course you may; but may not I growl too!
           May I not frown and grind my teeth like you!

        J--See Catherine comes! To her, to her,
           Let each his several miseries refer;
           She shall decide whose woes are least or worst,
           And which, as growler, shall rank last or first.

Catherine--Proceed to growl, in silence I`ll attend,
           And hear your foolish growlings to the end;
           And when they`re done, I shall correctly judge
           Which of your griefs are real or only fudge.
           Begin, let each his mournful voice prepare,
           (And pray, however angry, do not swear!)

        J--We came abroad for warmth, and find sharp cold!
           Cannes is an imposition, and we`re sold.

        E--Why did I leave my native land, to find
           Sharp hailstones, snow, and most disgusting wind?

        J--What boots it that we orange trees or lemons see,
           If we must suffer from such vile inclemency?

        E--Why did I take the lodgings I have got,
           Where all I don`t want is:--all I want not?

        J--Last week I called alout, O! O! O! O!
           The ground is wholly overspread with snow!
           Is that at any rate a theme for mirth
           Which makes a sugar-cake of all the earth?

        E--Why must I sneeze and snuffle, groan and cough,
           If my hat`s on my head, or if it`s off?
           Why must I sink all poetry in this prose,
           The everlasting blowing of my nose?

        J--When I walk out the mud my footsteps clogs,
           Besides, I suffer from attacks of dogs.

        E--Me a vast awful bulldog, black and brown,
           Completely terrified when near the town;
           As calves perceiving butchers, trembling reel,
           So did my calves the approaching monster feel.

        J--Already from two rooms we`re driven away,
           Because the beastly chimneys smoke all day;
           Is this a trifle, say?  Is this a joke?
           That we, like hams, should be becooked in smoke?

        E--Say, what avails it that my servant speaks
           Italian, English, Arabic, and Greek,
           Besides Albanian; if he don`t speak French,
           How can I ask for salt, or shrimps, or tench?

        J--When on the foolish hearth fresh wood I place,
           It whistles, sings, and squeaks, before my face;
           And if it does unless the fire burns bright,
           And if it does, yet squeaks, how can I write?

        E--Alas! I needs must go and call on swells,
           That they may say, "O Pray draw me the Estrelles."
           On one I went last week to leave a card,
           The swell was out--the servant eyed me hard:
           "This chap`s a thief disguised," his face expressed:
           If I go there again, may I be blest!

        J--Why must I suffer in this wind and gloom!
           Roomattics in a vile cold attic room?

        E--Swells drive about the road with haste and fury;
           As Jehu drove about all over Jewry.
           Just now, while walking slowly, I was all but
           Run over by the Lady Emma Talbot,
           Whom not long since a lovely babe I knew,
           With eyes and cap-ribbons of perfect blue.

        J--Downstairs and upstairs, every blessed minute,
           There`s each room with pianofortes in it.
           How can I write with noises such as those?
           And, being always discomposed, compose?

        E--Seven Germans through my garden lately strayed
           And all on instruments of torture played:
           They blew, they screamed, they yelled: how can I paint
           Unless my room is quiet, which it ain`t?

        J--How can I study if a hundred flies
           Each moment blunder into both my eyes?

        E--How can I draw with green or blue or red,
           If flies and beetles vex my old bald head?

        J--How can I translate German Metaphys-
           -Ics, if mosquitoes round my forehead whizz?

        E--I`ve bought some bacon (Though it`s much too fat),
           But round the house there prowls a hideous cat;
           Once should I see my bacon in her mouth,
           What care I if my rooms look north or south?

        J--Pain from a pane in one cracked window comes,
           Which sings and whistles, buzzes, shrieks and hums;
           In vain amain with pain the pane with this chord
           I fain would strain to stop the beastly dischord!

        E--If rain and wind and snow and such like ills
           Continue here, how shall I pay my bills?
           For who through cold and slush and rain will come
           To see my drawings and to purchase some?
           And if they don`t, what destiny is mine?
           How can I ever get to Palestine?

        J--The blinding sun strikes through the olive trees,
           When I walk out, and always makes me sneeze.

        E--Next door, if all night long the moon is shining,
           There sits a dog, who wakes me up with whining.

    Cath.--Forbear!  You both are bores, you`ve growled enough:
           No longer will I listen to such stuff!
           All men have nuisances and bores to afflict `um;
           Hark then, and bow to my official dictum!
           For you, Johannes, there is most excuse,
           (Some interruptions are the very deuce),
           You`re younger than the other cove, who surely
           Might have some sense--besides, you`re somewhat poorly.
           This therefore is my sentence, that you nurse
           The Baby for seven hours, and nothing worse.
           For you, Edwardus, I shall say no more
           Than that your griefs are fudge, yourself a bore;
           Return at once to cold, stewed, minced, hashed mutton--
           To wristbands ever guiltless of a button--
           To raging winds and sea (where don`t you wish
           Your luck may ever let you catch one fish?)--

           To make large drawings nobody will buy--
           To paint oil pictures which will never dry--
           To write new books which nobody will read--
           To drink weak tea, on tough old pigs to feed--
           Till spring-time brings the birds and leaves and flowers,
           And time restores a world of happier hours.
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