AT THE SIGN OF THE LYRE

“ Autant ici qu'ailleurs”

"At the Sign of the Lyre,"
Good Folk, we present you
With the pick of our quire—
And we hope to content you!

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,
Farewell, and God-speed—
The world is before you!

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
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.