THE LADIES OF ST. JAMES'S

A PROPER NEW BALLAD OF THE COUNTRY AND THE TOWN

"Phyllida amo ante alias."-VIRG.

THE 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!

THE OLD SEDAN CHAIR

"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."

IT

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

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 he stair,

While they raise up the lid of that old Sedan