Or, the Pride of Station

A MILK-WHITE pigeon (records state) Was wedded to a milk-white mate: Nor envied prince nor potentate This dainty dove, While crouching to her lord she sate, And coo’d her love.

Indulged in all her heart’s desire She felt no spark of lawless fire; So plumed herself throughout the shire A pattern wife: And chid dame Partlet, as in ire, For her loose life.

A scandal to our sex, I vow, Those cackling ladies of the mow! Or black, or red, or high, or low, They have no care; So he’s a Cock—’tis quite enow For welcome there!

Dame Partlet heard, but felt no shame; And let alone the vaunty dame, To nurse her pride of wedded fame; Herself content That conscience whisper’d her no blame Of evil bent.

A shot!—the dove—she knew the sound! Her milk-white mate has ta’en a wound: He languishes upon the ground: His swimming eyes Heed not his comrades hovering round: He gasps—he dies.

Oh! what can stint a widow’s grief! Our pattern wife defied relief: No grain pick’d she, no sprouting leaf, —As folks could see: A pattern widow (to be brief) She fain would be.

So trimly prinn’d she sat alone, And lean’d her breast against a stone, As one for ever woe-begone; And would not coo: No wonder that a suitor soon Came down to woo.

A vulgar bluerock by my fay! Without the gentle pouting way Of him that died the other day: Alas! he’s gone! And sore it is for one to stay, And live alone!

This bluerock press’d his suit so close, Now strutting up upon his toes, Now whispering something nose to nose,— Our milk-white dove Crouch’d to him, as the story goes, And coo’d her love.

Dame Partlet eyed the scene askaunt, And spake:—The pamper’d few may vaunt Their dainty taste o’er such as want; But coarser bread Is good enough to one who can’t Get fine instead.