| MY coachman, in the moonlight there, | |
| Looks through the side light of the door; | |
| I hear him with his brethren swear, | |
| As I could do,—but only more. | |
| |
| Flattening his nose against the pane, | 5 |
| He envies me my brilliant lot, | |
| Breathes on his aching fists in vain, | |
| And dooms me to a place more hot. | |
| |
| He sees me in to supper go, | |
| A silken wonder by my side. | 10 |
| Bare arms, bare shoulders, and a row | |
| Of flounces, for the door too wide. | |
| |
| He thinks how happy is my arm | |
| 'Neath its white-gloved and jewelled load; | |
| And wishes me some dreadful harm, | 15 |
| Hearing the merry corks explode. | |
| |
| Meanwhile I inly curse the bore | |
| Of hunting still the same old coon, | |
| And envy him, outside the door, | |
| In golden quiets of the moon. | 20 |
| |
| The winter wind is not so cold | |
| As the bright smile he sees me win, | |
| Nor the host's oldest wine so old | |
| As our poor gabble sour and thin. | |
| |
| I envy him the ungyved prance | 25 |
| With which his freezing feet he warms, | |
| And drag my lady's-chains and dance | |
| The galley-slave of dreary forms. | |
| |
| Oh, could he have my share of din, | |
| And I his quiet!—past a doubt | 30 |
| 'T would still be one man bored within, | |
| And just another bored without. | |
| |
| Nay, when, once paid my mortal fee, | |
| Some idler on my headstone grim | |
| Traces the moss-blurred name, will he | 35 |
| Think me the happier, or I him? | |
