Her tastes were not refined as ours; Her art was sampler-work design, 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 The warm west-looking window-seat, 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. She knew her faults. If she erred, Her softest word Was for the erring. If she had loved, or if she kept I know not. Only this I know, Younger than she, well-born and bred. Starving, in fact, 'twixt want and pride; 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 picquet Ceased with her death, of sheer regret He died soon after. Dear Madam Placid ! Others knew Their loves are lost; but still we see THE BALLAD OF "BEAU BROCADE" SEVE "Hark! I hear the sound of coaches!" 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," 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 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, Straining and creaking, with wheels awry, Lumbering up from Bagshot Heath, Passengers heavily armed inside; Not the less surely the coach had been tried! |