54
the orange-peel in the gutter.
Each hour crammed full with aching pain,
And anxious flutterings of hope,
As both alternately find scope.
And as she breathless notes each sound,
He whispers, turning round and round,
"Oh! mother, mother, give me drink."
She's up, she's back scarce in a wink,
And to her darling's burning lips,
The luscious fruit she holds, he sips
With breaths long drawn, still on and on,
Till all the cooling juice is gone,
And only left of fragrant meal,
Is that still golden orange-peel.
And anxious flutterings of hope,
As both alternately find scope.
And as she breathless notes each sound,
He whispers, turning round and round,
"Oh! mother, mother, give me drink."
She's up, she's back scarce in a wink,
And to her darling's burning lips,
The luscious fruit she holds, he sips
With breaths long drawn, still on and on,
Till all the cooling juice is gone,
And only left of fragrant meal,
Is that still golden orange-peel.
The orange-peel! ah, where am I?
Beneath the deep Italian sky?
In Covent Garden's crowded fair?
Or 'neath the roof of pain and care?
Ah, still within the darksome street,
So all unlovely and unsweet!
Beneath the deep Italian sky?
In Covent Garden's crowded fair?
Or 'neath the roof of pain and care?
Ah, still within the darksome street,
So all unlovely and unsweet!
