Lady Clara Vere De Vere: New Style

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 1Though, 'neath the Tennysonian frown, You 've ceased to play at hearts, what need 1For throwing all the graces down? The quip, the wile, the wingèd smile, 1Must these in truth be quite retired, Reformer of a thousand ills, 1O lady with a mission fired?

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 1You cause a tumult in my head. I do not know how many quarts 1Of coal-tar every year are fed In store-made pies, or what dread dyes 1Give that bright emerald to canned peas. I do not know the cure for graft, 1Or juvenile delinquencies; And, oh, my very soul is sick 1Of these and topics like to these!

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 1On suffragism you 've a view. You have one on the cost of war, 1And what the working-girl should do. Your uplift crusade comprehends 1The stage, the mart, the funeral bier; Your dinner-table talk has grown 1Statistical and very drear.

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, 1By yon blue heavens above us bent, The gardener Adam and his wife 1Yawn at your plans for betterment. We never see such sad ennui 1Among our hapless human brood As when the ladies' motto runs: 1" 'T is fashionable to do good."

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Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, 1If time hangs heavy on your hands, Are there no suitors at your gates, 1No squires of dames about your lands? Go, play the game of hearts again, 1Coquette, and sparkle, languish, glow; Ask pardon of the folk you 've bored, 1And let the thousand causes go!