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A GENTLEWOMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL.

HE lived in Georgian era too.

SH

Most women then, if bards be true,
Succumbed to Routs and Cards, or grew

Devout and acid.

But hers was neither fate. She came

Of good west-country folk, whose fame
Has faded now. For us her name
Is "Madam Placid."

Patience or Prudence,-what you will,
Some prefix faintly fragrant still

As those old musky scents that fill

Our grandams' pillows;

And for her youthful portrait take

Some long-waist child of Hudson's make,

Stiffly at ease beside a lake

With swans and willows.

I keep her later semblance placed
Beside my desk,-'tis lawned and laced,

In shadowy sanguine stipple traced

By Bartolozzi;

A placid face, in which surprise
Is seldom seen, but yet there lies
Some vestige of the laughing eyes
Of arch Piozzi.

For her e'en Time grew debonair.
He, finding cheeks unclaimed of care,
With late-delayed faint roses there,
And lingering dimples,

Had spared to touch the fair old face,
And only kissed with Vauxhall grace

The soft white hand that stroked her lace,
Or smoothed her wimples.

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Was comely as her youth was sage,

And yet she once had been the rage;-
It hath been hinted,

Indeed, affirmed by one or two,

Some spark at Bath (as sparks will do)
Inscribed a song to "Lovely Prue,"
Which Urban printed.

I know she thought; I know she felt; Perchance could sum, I doubt she spelt, She knew as little of the Celt

As of the Saxon;

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 bon-mots

And cackling laughter;

And when, at last, the long duet

Of conversation and picquet

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,
I take for granted.

Their loves are lost; but still we see
Your kind and gracious memory

Bloom yearly with the almond tree

The Frenchman planted.

THE BALLAD OF "BEAU BROCADE."

S

"Hark! I hear the sound of coaches!"

BEGGAR'S OPERA.

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EVENTEEN hundred and thirty-nine :-
That was the date of this tale of mine.

First great GEORGE was buried and gone;
GEORGE the Second was plodding on.

LONDON then, as the "Guides " aver,

Shared its glories with Westminster ;

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 66 a man and his price ";
Nobody's virtue was over-nice :-

Those, in fine, were the brave days when
Coaches were stopped by... Highwaymen !

And of all the knights of the gentle trade
Nobody bolder than "BEAU BROCADE."

This they knew on the whole way down;
Best,-maybe,--at the "Oak and Crown."

(For timorous cits on their pilgrimage Would "club" for a "Guard " to ride the stage;

And the Guard that rode on more than one
Was the Host of this hostel's sister's son.)

Open we here on a March-day fine,
Under the oak with the hanging sign.

There was Barber DICK with his basin by;
Cobbler JOE with the patch on his eye;

Portly product of Beef and Beer,

JOHN the host, he was standing near.

Straining and creaking, with wheels awry,
Lumbering came the "Plymouth Fly" ;-

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