4744

THE OLD SEDAN-CHAIR

"What's not destroyed by Time's devouring Hand?

Where's Troy,- and where's the May-Pole in the Strand ?»

- BRAMSTON'S ART OF POLITICKS.'

T STANDS in the stable-yard, under the eaves,

Propped up by a broomstick and covered with leaves;
It once was the pride of the gay and the fair,
But now 'tis a ruin,- that old Sedan-chair!

It is battered and tattered, it little avails

That once it was lacquered, and glistened with nails;
For its leather is cracked into lozenge and square
Like a canvas by Wilkie,- that old Sedan-chair.

See, here come the bearing-straps; here were the holes
For the poles of the bearers-when once there were poles;
It was cushioned with silk, it was wadded with hair,
As the birds have discovered,- that old Sedan-chair.

"Where's Troy?" says the poet! Look; under the seat
Is a nest with four eggs; 'tis a favored retreat
Of the Muscovy hen, who has hatched, I dare swear,
Quite an army of chicks in that old Sedan-chair.

And yet Can't you fancy a face in the frame
Of the window,- some high-headed damsel or dame,
Be-patched and be-powdered, just set by the stair,
While they raise up the lid of that old Sedan-chair?

Can't you fancy Sir Plume, as beside her he stands,
With his ruffles a-droop on his delicate hands,
With his cinnamon coat, with his laced solitaire,
As he lifts her out light from that old Sedan-chair?

Then it swings away slowly. Ah, many a league
It has trotted 'twixt sturdy-legged Terence and Teague;
Stout fellows!-but prone, on a question of fare,
To brandish the poles of that old Sedan-chair!

It has waited by portals where Garrick has played;
It has waited by Heidegger's "Grand Masquerade ";
For my Lady Codille, for my Lady Bellair,

It has waited — and waited, that old Sedan-chair!

Oh, the scandals it knows! Oh, the tales it could tell
Of Drum and Ridotto, of Rake and of Belle,-
Of Cock-fight and Levee, and (scarcely more rare!)
Of Fête-days at Tyburn, that old Sedan-chair!

"Heu! quantum mutata," I say as I go.

It deserves better fate than a stable-yard, though!
We must furbish it up, and dispatch it,-"With Care,” —
To a Fine-Art Museum-that old Sedan-chair.

THE BALLAD OF PROSE AND RHYME

HEN the ways are heavy with mire and rut,

WHE

In November fogs, in December snows,

When the North Wind howls, and the doors are shut,

There is place and enough for the pains of prose;

But whenever a scent from the whitethorn blows,

And the jasmine-stars at the casement climb,

And a Rosalind-face at the lattice shows, Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme!

When the brain gets dry as an empty nut,

When the reason stands on its squarest toes,
When the mind (like a beard) has a "formal cut,"
There is place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever the May-blood stirs and glows,
And the young year draws to the "golden prime,"
And Sir Romeo sticks in his ear a rose,—
Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme!

In a theme where the thoughts have a pedant-strut,
In a changing quarrel of "Ayes" and "Noes,"
In a starched procession of "If" and "But,”
There is place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever a soft glance softer grows

And the light hours dance to the trysting-time,
And the secret is told "that no one knows,"
Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme!

ENVOY

In the work-a-day world,- for its needs and woes,
There is place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever the May-bells clash and chime,
Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme!

M

THE CURÉ'S PROGRESS

ONSIEUR THE CURÉ down the street

Comes with his kind old face,

With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair,
And his green umbrella-case.

You may see him pass by the little "Grande Place,»
And the tiny "Hôtel-de-Ville";

He smiles as he goes, to the fleuriste Rose,
And the pompier Théophile.

He turns as a rule through the "Marché» cool,
Where the noisy fishwives call;

And his compliment pays to the "belle Thérèse,»
As she knits in her dusky stall.

There's a letter to drop at the locksmith's shop,
And Toto, the locksmith's niece,

Has jubilant hopes, for the Curé gropes.
In his tails for a pain d'épice.

There's a little dispute with a merchant of fruit
Who is said to be heterodox,

That will ended be with a "Ma foi, oui!»
And a pinch from the Curé's box.

There is also a word that no one heard
To the furrier's daughter Lou;

And a pale cheek fed with a flickering red,
And a "Bon Dieu garde M'sieu !"

But a grander way for the Sous-Préfet,
And a bow for Ma'am'selle Anne;
And a mock "off-hat" to the Notary's cat,

And a nod to the Sacristan :·

For ever through life the Curé goes

With a smile on his kind old face

With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair,
And his green umbrella-case.

4747

"GOOD-NIGHT, BABETTE »

"Si vieillesse pouvait!»

SCENE.-A small neat room. In a high Voltaire chair sits a white-haired

You're a good girl, BABETTE, but she,

She was an angel, verily.

Sometimes I think I see her yet

Stand smiling by the cabinet;

And once, I know, she peeped and laughed

Betwixt the curtains.

Where's the draught?

[She gives him a cup.]

Now I shall sleep, I think, BABETTE;-
Sing me your Norman chansonnette.

M. VIEUXBOIS [murmuring]

Ah PAUL! . . . old PAUL!... EULALIE, too!
And ROSE . . . And O! "the sky so blue!”

BABETTE [sings]

"One had my Mother's eyes,
Wistful and mild;

One had my Father's face;

One was a Child:

All of them bent to me,

Bent down and smiled!»

[He is asleep!]

M. VIEUXBOIS [almost inaudibly]

How I forget!

I am so old! . . . Good-night, BABETTE!