"At the Sign of the Lyre," Here be Ballad and Song, The fruits of our leisure, Some short and some long,— May they all give you pleasure! But if, when you read, They should fail to restore you, "HE ladies of St. James's THE 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 The ladies of St. James's Wear satin on their backs; She dons her russet gown, The ladies of St. James's! They are so fine and fair, But Phyllida, my Phyllida! The breath of heath and furze, When breezes blow at morning, Is not so fresh as hers. The ladies of St. James's! It trembles to a lily, It wavers to a rose. The ladies of St. James's! You scarce can understand The half of all their speeches, Their phrases are so grand: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! Her shy and simple words 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! IT THE OLD SEDAN CHAIR "What's not destroy'd by Time's devouring Hand? T stands in the stable-yard, under the eaves, Propped up by a broom-stick and covered with leaves: It once was the pride of the gay and the fair, It is battered and tattered,—it little avails See, here came 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! |