I know she played and sang, for yet Her tastes were not refined as ours; Her art was sampler-work design, Her luxury was elder-wine, — She loved that "purely." She was renowned, traditions say, And ratafia; She knew, for sprains, what bands to choose, Yet studied little. She would read, Seeing she chose for her retreat This, 'twixt ourselves. The dear old dame, Is scarcely stirring ; Her plain-song piety preferred Pure life to precept. If she erred, She knew her faults. Her softest word If she had loved, or if she kept Some ancient memory green, or wept Over the shoulder-knot that slept I know not. Within her cuff-box, Only this I know, At sixty-five she 'd still her beau, A lean French exile, lame and slow, Younger than she, well-born and bred. And daily dinners; Starving, in fact, 'twixt want and pride; 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 coffin too, Their flowers upon your 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." "Hark! I hear the sound of coaches!" BEGGAR'S OPERA. SEVENTEEN hundred and thirty-nine : - That was the date of this tale of mine. First great GEORGE was buried and gone; LONDON then, as the "Guides" aver, And people of rank, to correct their Those were the days of the War with Spain, WHITEFIELD preached to the colliers grim, WALPOLE talked of "a man and his price "; Those, in fine, were the brave days when ... Highwaymen ! And of all the knights of the gentle trade 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 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! |