The Home Book of Verse
Chapter 375 : The ladies of St. James's Go swinging to the play; Their footmen run before them,

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 color 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 s.h.i.+ne, 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!

Austin Dobson [1840-1921]

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 pa.s.s 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 "Ben 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.

Austin Dobson [1840-1921]

A GENTLEMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL

He lived in that past Georgian day, When men were less inclined to say That "Time is Gold," and overlay With toil their pleasure; He held some land, and dwelt thereon,-- Where, I forget,--the house is gone; His Christian name, I think, was John,-- His surname, Leisure.

Reynolds has painted him,--a face Filled with a fine, old-fas.h.i.+oned grace, Fresh-colored, frank, with ne'er a trace Of trouble shaded; The eyes are blue, the hair is dressed In plainest way,--one hand is pressed Deep in a flapped canary vest, With buds brocaded.

He wears a brown old Brunswick coat, With silver b.u.t.tons,--round his throat, A soft cravat;--in all you note An elder fas.h.i.+on,-- A strangeness, which, to us who s.h.i.+ne In shapely hats,--whose coats combine All harmonies of hue and line, Inspires compa.s.sion.

He lived so long ago, you see!

Men were untravelled then, but we, Like Ariel, post o'er land and sea With careless parting; He found it quite enough for him To smoke his pipe in "garden trim,"

And watch, about the fish tank's brim, The swallows darting.

He liked the well-wheel's creaking tongue,-- He liked the thrush that fed her young,-- He liked the drone of flies among His netted peaches; He liked to watch the sunlight fall Athwart his ivied orchard wall; Or pause to catch the cuckoo's call Beyond the beeches.

His were the times of Paint and Patch, And yet no Ranelagh could match The sober doves that round his thatch Spread tails and sidled; He liked their ruffling, puffed content; For him their drowsy wheelings meant More than a Mall of Beaux that bent, Or Belles that bridled.

Not that, in truth, when life began He shunned the flutter of the fan; He too had maybe "pinked his man"

In Beauty's quarrel; But now his "fervent youth" had flown Where lost things go; and he was grown As staid and slow-paced as his own Old hunter, Sorrel.

Yet still he loved the chase, and held That no composer's score excelled The merry horn, when Sweetlip swelled Its jovial riot; But most his measured words of praise Caressed the angler's easy ways,-- His idly meditative days,-- His rustic diet.

Not that his "meditating" rose Beyond a sunny summer doze; He never troubled his repose With fruitless prying; But held, as law for high and low, What G.o.d withholds no man can know, And smiled away enquiry so, Without replying.

We read--alas, how much we read!-- The jumbled strifes of creed and creed With endless controversies feed Our groaning tables; His books--and they sufficed him--were Cotton's Montaigne, The Grave of Blair, A "Walton"--much the worse for wear, And Aesop's Fables.

One more--The Bible. Not that he Had searched its page as deep as we; No sophistries could make him see Its slender credit; It may be that he could not count The sires and sons to Jesse's fount,-- He liked the "Sermon on the Mount,"-- And more, he read it.

Once he had loved, but failed to wed, A red-cheeked la.s.s who long was dead; His ways were far too slow, he said, To quite forget her; And still when time had turned him gray, The earliest hawthorn buds in May Would find his lingering feet astray, Where first he met her.

"In Coelo Quies" heads the stone On Leisure's grave,--now little known, A tangle of wild-rose has grown So thick across it; The "Benefactions" still declare He left the clerk an elbow-chair, And "12 Pence Yearly to Prepare A Christmas Posset."

Lie softly, Leisure! Doubtless you, With too serene a conscience drew Your easy breath, and slumbered through The gravest issue; But we, to whom our age allows Scarce s.p.a.ce to wipe our weary brows, Look down upon your narrow house, Old friend, and miss you!

Austin Dobson [1840-1921]

ON A FAN That Belonged To The Marquise De Pompadour

Chicken-skin, delicate, white, Painted by Carlo Vanloo, Loves in a riot of light, Roses and vaporous blue; Hark to the dainty frou-frou!

Picture above, if you can, Eyes that could melt as the dew,-- This was the Pompadour's fan!

See how they rise at the sight, Thronging the Ceil de Boeuf through, Courtiers as b.u.t.terflies bright, Beauties that Fragonard drew, Talon-rouge, falbala, queue, Cardinal, Duke,--to a man, Eager to sigh or to sue,-- This was the Pompadour's fan!