Puslapio vaizdai



"Phyllida amo ante alias."-VIRG.

'HE 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.

The ladies of St. James's!

They are so fine and fair,
You'd think a box of essences
Was broken in the air :
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!

They're painted to the eyes; Their white it stays for ever,

Their red it never dies:

But Phyllida, my Phyllida! Her colour comes and goes;

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 !
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
Is all the world to me!


"What's not destroy'd 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 broom-stick 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 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!

"Where's Troy?" says the poet! Look,-under the seat,

Is a nest with four eggs,-'tis the favoured


Of the Muscovy hen, who has hatched, I dare


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


Be-patched and be-powdered, just set by he stair,

While they raise up the lid of that old Sedan

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