Yet studied little. She would read, On Sundays, "Pearson on the Creed," Seeing she chose for her retreat The warm west-looking window-seat, Where, if you chanced to raise your feet, You slumbered soundly. This, 'twixt ourselves. The dear old dame, In truth, was not so much to blame; The excellent divine I name Is scarcely stirring; Her plain-song piety preferred Pure life to precept. If she erred, She knew her faults. Her softest word Was for the erring. If she had loved, or if she kept Some ancient memory green, or wept Over the shoulder-knot that slept Within her cuff-box, I know not. Only this I know, Younger than she, well-born and bred. She'd found him in St. Giles', half dead Of teaching French for nightly bed And daily dinners : Starving, in fact, 'twixt want and pride; And so, henceforth, you always spied His rusty "pigeon-wings" beside Her Mechlin pinners. He worshipped her, you may suppose. She gained him pupils, gave him clothes, Delighted in his dry bons mots And cackling laughter; And when, at last, the long duet Of conversation and piquet Ceased with her death, of sheer regret He died soon after. Dear Madam Placid! Others knew Your worth as well as he, and threw Their flowers upon your coffin too, Their loves are lost; but still we see The Frenchman planted. THE BALLAD OF "BEAU BROCADE" "Hark! I hear the sound of coaches!" -BEGGAR'S OPERA, EVENTEEN hundred and thirty-nine :- First great GEORGE was buried and gone ; LONDON then, as the "Guides" aver, And people of rank, to correct their "tone," Went out of town to Marybone. Those were the days of the War with Spain, PORTO-BELLO would soon be ta'en; WHITEFIELD preached to the colliers grim, Bishops in lawn sleeves preached at him ; WALPOLE talked of "a man and his price"; Those, in fine, were the brave days when Coaches were stopped by Highwaymen ! And of all the knights of the gentle trade This they knew on the whole way down; (For timorous cits on their pilgrimage Would "club" for a "Guard" to ride the stage: And the Guard that rode on more than one Open we here on a March day fine, There was Barber DICK with his basin by ; Portly product of Beef and Beer, JOHN the host, he was standing near. Straining and creaking, with wheels awry, Lumbering up from Bagshot Heath, Passengers heavily armed inside; Not the less surely the coach had been tried! Tried!-but a couple of miles away, Tried successfully, never a doubt,— Cloak-bags rifled, and cushions ripped,- Even a Methodist hosier's wife Offered the choice of her Money or Life! Highwayman's manners no less polite, Hoped that their coppers (returned) were right ; Sorry to find the company poor, Hoped next time they'd travel with more ; |