FullReads

Austin Dobson’s version was really more lady-like:

BALLADE OF A PUMPKIN:

Golden-skinned, delicate, bright,
Wondrous of texture and hue,
Bathed in a soft, sunny light,
Pearled with a silvery dew.
Fair as a flower to the view,
Ripened by summer’s soft heat,
Basking beneath Heaven’s blue,–
This is the Pumpkin of Pete.

Peter consumed day and night,
Pumpkin in pie or in stew;
Hinted to Cook that she might
Can it for winter use, too.
Pumpkin croquettes, not a few,
Peter would happily eat;
Knowing content would ensue,–
This is the Pumpkin of Pete.

Everything went along right,
Just as all things ought to do;
Till Peter,–unfortunate wight,–
Married a girl that he knew.
Each day he had to pursue
His runaway Bride down the street,–
So her into prison he threw,–
This is the Pumpkin of Pete.

L’ENVOI

Lady, a sad lot, ’tis true,
Staying your wandering feet;
But ’tis the best place for you,–
This is the Pumpkin of Pete.

Like the other women present Dinah Craik felt the pathos of the situation, and gave vent to her feelings in this tender burst of song:

Could I come back to you, Peter, Peter,
From this old pumpkin that I hate;
I would be so tender, so loving, Peter,–
Peter, Peter, gracious and great.

You were not half worthy of me, Peter,
Not half worthy the like of I;
Now all men beside are not in it, Peter,–
Peter, Peter, I feel like a pie.

Stretch out your hand to me, Peter, Peter,
Let me out of this Pumpkin, do;
Peter, my beautiful Pumpkin Eater,
Peter, Peter, tender and true.

Mr. Hogg took his own graceful view of the matter, thus:

Lady of wandering,
Blithesome, meandering,
Sweet was thy flitting o’er moorland and lea;
Emblem of restlessness,
Blest be thy dwelling place,
Oh, to abide in the Pumpkin with thee.

Peter, though bland and good,
Never thee understood,
Or he had known how thy nature was free;
Goddess of fickleness,
Blest be thy dwelling place,
Oh, to abide in the Pumpkin with thee.

Mr. Kipling grasped at the occasion for a ballad in his best vein. The plot of the story aroused his old-time enthusiasm, and he transplanted the pumpkin eater and his wife to the scenes of his earlier powers:

In a great big Mammoth pumpkin
Lookin’ eastward to the sea,
There’s a wife of mine a-settin’
And I know she’s mad at me.
For I hear her calling, “Peter!”
With a wild hysteric shout:
“Come you back, you Punkin Eater,–
Come you back and let me out!”
For she’s in a punkin shell,
I have locked her in her cell;
But it really is a comfy, well-constructed punkin shell;
And there she’ll have to dwell,
For she didn’t treat me well,
So I put her in the punkin and I’ve kept her very well.

Algernon Swinburne was also in one of his early moods, and as a result he wove the story into this exquisite fabric of words:

IN THE PUMPKIN

Leave go my hands. Let me catch breath and see,
What is this confine either side of me?
Green pumpkin vines about me coil and crawl,
Seen sidelong, like a ‘possum in a tree,–
Ah me, ah me, that pumpkins are so small!

Oh, my fair love, I charge thee, let me out
From this gold lush encircling me about;
I turn and only meet a pumpkin wall.
The crescent moon shines slim,–but I am stout,–
Ah me, ah me, that pumpkins are so small!

Pumpkin seeds like cold sea blooms bring me dreams;
Ah, Pete,–too sweet to me,–My Pete, it seems
Love like a Pumpkin holds me in its thrall;
And overhead a writhen shadow gleams,–
Ah me, ah me, that pumpkins are so small!