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; A GENTLE WOMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL 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 Some ancient memory green, or wept I know not. Only this I know, At sixty-five she'd still her beau, A lean French exile, lame and slow, Younger than she, well-born and bred. Starving, in fact, 'twixt want and pride; He worshipped her, you may suppose. 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" THE BALLAD OF "BEAU BROCADE" "Hark! I hear the sound of coaches!" -BEGGAR'S OPERA. SEVENT 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," Went out of town to Marybone. 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! |