Notes 271

AT THE SIGN OF THE LYRE.

"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 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 destroyed by Time's devouring Hand? Where's Troy, and where's the May-Pole in the Strand?" Bramston's "Art of Politicks."

It 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 the stair, While they raise up the lid of that old Sedan chair?

Can't you fancy Sir Plume, as beside her he stands, With his ruffles a-droop on his delicate hands, With his cinnamon coat, with his laced solitaire, As he lifts her out light from that old Sedan chair?

Then it swings away slowly. Ah, many a league It has trotted 'twixt sturdy-legged Terence and Teague; Stout fellows!--but prone, on a question of fare, To brandish the poles of that old Sedan chair!

It has waited by portals where Garrick has played; It has waited by Heidegger's "Grand Masquerade;" For my Lady Codille, for my Lady Bellair, It has waited--and waited, that old Sedan chair!

Oh, the scandals it knows! Oh, the tales it could tell Of Drum and Ridotto, of Rake and of Belle,-- Of Cock-fight and Levee, and (scarcely more rare!) Of Fete-days at Tyburn, that old Sedan chair!

"Heu! quantum mutata," I say as I go. It deserves better fate than a stable-yard, though! We must furbish it up, and dispatch it,--"With Care,"-- To a Fine-Art Museum--that old Sedan chair!

TO AN INTRUSIVE BUTTERFLY.

"Kill not--for Pity's sake--and lest ye slay The meanest thing upon its upward way." Five Rules of Buddha.

I watch you through the garden walks, I watch you float between The avenues of dahlia stalks, And flicker on the green; You hover round the garden seat, You mount, you waver. Why,-- Why storm us in our still retreat, O saffron Butterfly!

Across the room in loops of flight I watch you wayward go; Dance down a shaft of glancing light, Review my books a-row; Before the bust you flaunt and flit Of "blind Maeonides"-- Ah, trifler, on his lips there lit Not butterflies, but bees!

You pause, you poise, you circle up Among my old Japan; You find a comrade on a cup, A friend upon a fan; You wind anon, a breathing-while, Around AMANDA'S brow;-- Dost dream her then, O Volatile! E'en such an one as thou?

Away! Her thoughts are not as thine. A sterner purpose fills Her steadfast soul with deep design Of baby bows and frills; What care hath she for worlds without, What heed for yellow sun, Whose endless hopes revolve about A planet, aetat One!

Away! Tempt not the best of wives; Let not thy garish wing Come fluttering our Autumn lives With truant dreams of Spring! Away! Re-seek thy "Flowery Land;" Be Buddha's law obeyed; Lest Betty's undiscerning hand Should slay ... a future PRAED!

THE CURE'S PROGRESS.

Monsieur the Cure down the street Comes with his kind old face,-- With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair, And his green umbrella-case.

You may see him pass by the little "Grande Place," And the tiny "Hotel-de-Ville"; He smiles, as he goes, to the fleuriste Rose, And the pompier Theophile.

He turns, as a rule, through the "Marche" cool, Where the noisy fish-wives call; And his compliment pays to the "Belle Therese," As she knits in her dusky stall.

There's a letter to drop at the locksmith's shop, And Toto, the locksmith's niece, Has jubilant hopes, for the Cure gropes In his tails for a pain d'epice.

There's a little dispute with a merchant of fruit, Who is said to be heterodox, That will ended be with a "Ma foi, oui!" And a pinch from the Cure's box.

There is also a word that no one heard To the furrier's daughter Lou; And a pale cheek fed with a flickering red, And a "Bon Dieu garde M'sieu!"

But a grander way for the Sous-Prefet, And a bow for Ma'am'selle Anne; And a mock "off-hat" to the Notary's cat, And a nod to the Sacristan:--

For ever through life the Cure goes With a smile on his kind old face-- With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair, And his green umbrella-case.

THE MASQUE OF THE MONTHS.