The Ballad of Beau Brocade: And Other Poems of the XVIIIth Century

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Kegan Paul, Trench, Trübner & Company, 1892 - 89 psl.
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55 psl. - THE ladies of St. James's Go swinging to the play; Their footmen run before them, With a "Stand by! Clear the way!" But Phyllida, my Phyllida! She takes her buckled shoon, When we go out a-courting Beneath the harvest moon. The ladies of St. James's Wear satin on their backs; They sit all night at Ombre, With candles all of wax: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! She dons her russet gown, And runs to gather May dew Before the world is down.
25 psl. - An elder fashion, — • A strangeness, which, to us who shine In shapely hats, — whose coats combine All harmonies of hue and line, — Inspires compassion. He lived so long ago, you see! Men were untravelled then, but we, Like Ariel, post o'er land and sea With careless parting; He found it quite enough for him To smoke his pipe in "garden trim," And watch, about the fish tank's brim, The swallows darting.
56 psl. - ... Are clear as after rain-drops The music of the birds. The ladies of St. James's ! They have their fits and freaks ; They smile on you — for seconds, They frown on you — for weeks : But Phyllida, my Phyllida ! Come either storm or shine, From Shrove-tide unto Shrove-tide, Is always true — and mine. My Phyllida ! my Phyllida ! I care not though they heap The hearts of all St. James's, And give me all to keep ; I care not whose the beauties Of all the world may be, For Phyllida— for Phyllida...
48 psl. - A place to love in, — live, — for aye, If we too, like Tithonus, Could find some God to stretch the gray, Scant life the Fates have thrown us ; " But now by steam we run our race, With buttoned heart and pocket ; Our Love 'sa gilded, surplus grace, — Just like an empty locket ! '"The time is out of joint. ' Who will, May strive to make it better ; For me, this warm old window-sill, And this old dusty letter.
15 psl. - DOLLY the Chambermaid, (Tremulous now, and sore afraid,) " Stand and Deliver, O ' BEAU BROCADE ' ! " — Firing then, out of sheer alarm, Hit the BEAU in the bridle-arm. Button the first went none knows where, But it carried away his solitaire; Button the second a circuit made, Glanced in under the shoulder-blade; — Down from the saddle fell " BEAU BROCADE " ! Down from the saddle and never stirred ! — DOLLY grew white as a Windsor curd.
55 psl. - The ladies of St. James's! They're painted to the eyes; Their white it stays for ever, Their red it never dies: But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
12 psl. - Pastoral Letter"; Looked to the flint, and hung the whole, Ready to use, at her pocket-hole. Thus equipped and accoutred, Dolly Clattered away to " Exciseman's Folly " ; — Such was the name of a ruined abode, Just on the edge of the London road. Thence she thought she might safely try, As soon as she saw it, to warn the
50 psl. - My Dear, I don't think that I thought of much Before we knew each other, I and you ; And now, why, John, your least, least Finger-touch, Gives me enough to think a Summer through. See, for I send you Something ! There, 'tis gone ! Look in this corner, — mind you find it, John...
47 psl. - Grew in the same grim shapes; and still The lipless dolphin spurted; Still in his wonted state abode The broken-nosed Apollo; And still the cypress-arbour showed The same umbrageous hollow. Only, — as fresh young Beauty gleams From coffee-coloured laces, — So peeped from its old-fashioned dreams The fresher modern traces; For idle mallet, hoop, and ball Upon the lawn were lying; A magazine, a tumbled shawl, Round which the swifts were flying; And, tossed beside the Guelder rose, A heap of rainbow...

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