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A Gentlewoman of the Old School. 4I

She was renowned, traditions say,

For June conserves, for curds and whey,

For finest tea (she called it “tay"),

And ratafia;

She knew, for sprains, what bands to choose,

Could tell the sovereign wash to use

For freckles, and was learned in brews

As erst Medea.

Yet studied little. She would read,

On Sundays, "Pearson on the Creed,"

Though, as I think, she could not heed

His text profoundly;

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,

At sixty-five she'd still her beau,

A lean French exile, lame and slow,
With monstrous snuff-box.

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A Gentlewoman of the Old School.

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 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.

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