And he was kind, and loved to sit In the low hut or garnished cottage, And praise the farmer's homely wit, And share the widow's homelier pottage.

At his approach complaint grew mild, And when his hand unbarred the shutter, The clammy lips of Fever smiled The welcome which they could not utter.

He always had a tale for me Of Julius Caesar or of Venus; From him I learned the rule of three, Cat's-cradle, leap-frog, and Quae genus.

I used to singe his powdered wig, To steal the staff he put such trust in, And make the puppy dance a jig When he began to quote Augustine.

Alack, the change! In vain I look For haunts in which my boyhood trifled; The level lawn, the trickling brook, The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled.

The church is larger than before, You reach it by a carriage entry: It holds three hundred people more, And pews are fitted up for gentry.

Sit in the Vicar's seat; you'll hear The doctrine of a gentle Johnian, Whose hand is white, whose voice is clear, Whose phrase is very Ciceronian.

Where is the old man laid? Look down, And construe on the slab before you: "Hic jacet Gulielmus Brown, Vir nulla non donandus lauru."

Winthrop Mackworth Praed [1802-1839]

THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM

Years, years ago, ere yet my dreams Had been of being wise or witty; Ere I had done with writing themes, Or yawned o'er this infernal Chitty;-- Years, years ago, while all my joy Were in my fowling-piece and filly; In short, while I was yet a boy, I fell in love with Laura Lilly.

I saw her at the County Ball; There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle Gave signal sweet in that old hall Of hands across and down the middle, Hers was the subtlest spell by far Of all that sets young hearts romancing: She was our queen, our rose, our star; And then she danced,--oh, heaven, her dancing!

Dark was her hair, her hand was white; Her voice was exquisitely tender; Her eyes were full of liquid light; I never saw a waist so slender; Her every look, her every smile, Shot right and left a score of arrows; I thought 'twas Venus from her isle, And wondered where she'd left her sparrows.

She talked of politics or prayers,-- Of Southey's prose, or Wordsworth's sonnets, Of danglers or of dancing bears, Of battles, or the last new bonnets; By candle-light, at twelve o'clock, To me it mattered not a t.i.ttle, If those bright lips had quoted Locke, I might have thought they murmured Little.

Through sunny May, through sultry June, I loved her with a love eternal; I spoke her praises to the moon, I wrote them to the Sunday Journal.

My mother laughed; I soon found out That ancient ladies have no feeling: My father frowned; but how should gout See any happiness in kneeling?

She was the daughter of a dean, Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic; She had one brother just thirteen, Whose color was extremely hectic; Her grandmother, for many a year, Had fed the parish with her bounty; Her second cousin was a peer, And lord-lieutenant of the county.

But t.i.tles and the three-per-cents, And mortgages, and great relations, And India bonds, and t.i.thes and rents, Oh, what are they to love's sensations?

Black eyes, fair forehead, cl.u.s.tering locks,-- Such wealth, such honors, Cupid chooses; He cares as little for the stocks, As Baron Rothschild for the Muses.

She sketched; the vale, the wood, the beach, Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading; She botanized; I envied each Young blossom in her boudoir fading: She warbled Handel; it was grand,-- She made the Catilina jealous; She touched the organ; I could stand For hours and hours to blow the bellows.

She kept an alb.u.m, too, at home, Well filled with all an alb.u.m's glories; Paintings of b.u.t.terflies and Rome, Patterns for tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs, Persian stories, Soft songs to Julia's c.o.c.katoo, Fierce odes to famine and to slaughter, And autographs of Prince Leboo, And recipes for elder-water.

And she was flattered, worshipped, bored; Her steps were watched, her dress was noted; Her poodle-dog was quite adored; Her sayings were extremely quoted.

She laughed, and every heart was glad, As if the taxes were abolished; She frowned, and every took was sad, As if the opera were demolished.

She smiled on many just for fun,-- I knew that there was nothing in it; I was the first, the only one Her heart had thought of for a minute.

I knew it, for she told me so, In phrase which was divinely moulded; She wrote a charming hand, and oh, How sweetly all her notes were folded!

Our love was like most other loves,-- A little glow, a little shiver, A rosebud and a pair of gloves, And "Fly Not Yet," upon the river; Some jealousy of some one's heir, Some hopes of dying broken-hearted; A miniature, a lock of hair, The usual vows,--and then we parted.

We parted: months and years rolled by; We met again four summers after.

Our parting was all sob and sigh,-- Our meeting was all mirth and laughter; For, in my heart's most secret cell, There had been many other lodgers; And she was not the ball-room's belle, But only Mrs.--Something--Rogers.

Winthrop Mackworth Praed [1802-1839]

THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN

I'll sing you a good old song, Made by a good old pate, Of a fine old English gentleman Who had an old estate, And who kept up his old mansion At a bountiful old rate; With a good old porter to relieve The old poor at his gate, Like a fine old English gentleman All of the olden time.

His hall so old was hung around With pikes and guns and bows, And swords, and good old bucklers, That had stood some tough old blows; 'Twas there "his worship" held his state In doublet and trunk hose, And quaffed his cup of good old sack, To warm his good old nose, Like a fine old English gentleman All of the olden time.

When winter's cold brought frost and snow, He opened house to all; And though threescore and ten his years, He featly led the ball; Nor was the houseless wanderer E'er driven from his hall; For while he feasted all the great, He ne'er forgot the small; Like a fine old English gentleman All of the olden time.

But time, though old, is strong in flight, And years rolled swiftly by; And Autumn's falling leaves proclaimed This good old man must die!

He laid him down right tranquilly, Gave up life's latest sigh; And mournful stillness reigned around, And tears bedewed each eye, For this fine old English gentleman All of the olden time.

Now surely this is better far Than all the new parade Of theaters and fancy b.a.l.l.s, "At home" and masquerade: And much more economical, For all his bills were paid, Then leave your new vagaries quite, And take up the old trade Of a fine old English gentleman, All of the olden time.

Unknown

A TERNARIE OF LITTLES, UPON A PIPKIN OF JELLY SENT TO A LADY

A Little Saint best fits a little Shrine, A little Prop best fits a little Vine, As my small Cruse best fits my little Wine.

A little Seed best fits a little Soil, A little Trade best fits a little Toil, As my small Jar best fits my little Oil.

A little Bin best fits a little Bread, A little Garland fits a little Head, As my small Stuff best fits my little Shed.

A little Hearth best fits a little Fire, A little Chapel fits a little Quire, As my small Bell best fits my little Spire.

A little Stream best fits a little Boat, A little Lead best fits a little Float, As my small Pipe best fits my little Note.

A little Meat best fits a little Belly, As sweetly, lady, give me leave to tell ye, This little Pipkin fits this little Jelly.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

CHIVALRY AT A DISCOUNT

Fair cousin mine! the golden days Of old romance are over; And minstrels now care naught for bays, Nor damsels for a lover; And hearts are cold, and lips are mute That kindled once with pa.s.sion, And now we've neither lance nor lute, And tilting's out of fashion.

Yet weeping Beauty mourns the time When Love found words in flowers; When softest test sighs were breathed in rhyme, And sweetest songs in bowers; Now wedlock is a sober thing-- No more of chains or forges!-- A plain young man--a plain gold ring-- The curate--and St. George's.

Then every cross-bow had a string, And every heart a fetter; And making love was quite the thing, And making verses better; And maiden-aunts were never seen, And gallant beaux were plenty; And la.s.ses married at sixteen, And died at one-and-twenty.