Uncle was then a lad
Gay, but, I grieve to add,
Sinful, if smoking bad
Baccy's a vice :
Glossy was then this mink
Muff, lined with pretty pink
Satin, which maidens think
"Awfully nice!"

I seem to see again
Aunt in her hood and train
Glide, with a sweet disdain,
Gravely to Meeting :
Psalm-book, and kerchief new,
Peep'd from the Muff of Prue;
Young men, and pious too,
Giving her greeting.

Sweetly her Sabbath sped
Then; from this Muff, it's said,
Tracts she distributed :

Converts (till Monday !),

Love has a potent spell;
Soon this bold ne'er-do-well,
Aunt's too susceptible

Heart undermining,
Slipp'd, so the scandal runs,
Notes in the pretty nun's
Muff, - triple-corner'd ones,
Pink as its lining.

Worse follow'd soon the jade
Fled (to oblige her blade !)
Whilst her friends thought that they'd
Lock'd her up tightly:

After such shocking games
Aunt is of wedded dames
Gayest, and now her name's
Mrs. Golightly.

In female conduct, flaw
Sadder I never saw.

Faith still I've in the law

Of compensation.
Once Uncle went astray,
Smok'd, jok'd, and swore away;
Sworn by he's now, by a

Large congregation.

It pleases Time to fold his wings Around our best and fairest things; He'll mar your blooming cheek, as now He stamps his mark upon my brow.

The same mute planets rise and shine To rule your days and nights as mine: Once I was young and gay, and, see.. What I am now you soon will be.

And yet I boast a certain charm
That shields me from your worst alarm;
And bids me gaze, with front sublime,
On all these ravages of Time.

You boast a gift to charm the eyes,
I boast a gift that Time defies:
For mine will still be mine, and last
When all your pride of beauty's past.

My gift may long embalm the lures
Of eyes- ah, sweet to me as yours!
For
ages hence the great and good
Will judge you as I choose they should

In days to come, the peer or clown,
With whom I still shall win renown,
Will only know that you were fair
Because I chanced to say you were.

Proud Lady! Scornful beauty mocks
At aged heads and silver locks;
But think awhile before you fly,
Or spurn a poet such as I.

THE SKELETON IN THE CUPBOARD

THE characters of great and small

Come ready-made, we can't bespeak one; Their sides are many, too, and all

(Except ourselves) have got a weak one. Some sanguine people love for life,

Some love their hobby till it flings them. How many love a pretty wife

For love of the éclat she brings them!

A little to relieve my mind

I've thrown off this disjointed chatter, But more because I'm disinclin'd

To enter on a painful matter: Once I was bashful; I'll allow

I've blush'd for words untimely spoken:

I still am rather shy, and now...

And now the ice is fairly broken.

We all have secrets: you have one Which may n't be quite your charming spouse's;

We all lock up a skeleton

In some grim chamber of our houses; Familiars, who exhaust their days

And nights in probing where our smart
is,

And who, excepting spiteful ways,
Are "silent, unassuming parties.”

We hug this phantom we detest,
Rarely we let it cross our portals;
It is a most exacting guest:

Now, are we not afflicted mortals?
Your neighbor Gay, that jovial wight,

As Dives rich, and brave as Hector, Poor Gay steals twenty times a night, On shaking knees, to see his spectre.

Old Dives fears a pauper fate,

So hoarding is his ruling passion : Some gloomy souls anticipate

A waistcoat straiter than the fashion!

She childless pines, that lonely wife,
And secret tears are bitter shedding;
Hector may tremble all his life,

And die, but not of that he's dreading.

Ah me, the World! - how fast it spins! The beldams dance, the caldron bubbles; They shriek, they stir it for our sins,

And we must drain it for our troubles. We toil, we groan; the cry for love Mounts up from this poor seething city, And yet I know we have above A FATHER infinite in pity.

When Beauty smiles, when Sorrow weeps, Where sunbeams play, where shadows darken,

One inmate of our dwelling keeps

Its ghastly carnival; but hearken! How dry the rattle of the bones!

That sound was not to make you start
meant :

Stand by! Your humble servant owns
The Tenant of this Dark Apartment.

;

In very queer places he spends his life There's talk of some children by nobody's wife

But we must n't look close into what is done

By the Earl of Fitzdotterel's eldest son.

My Lord Tomnoddy must settle down— There's a vacant seat in the family town! ('Tis time he should sow his eccentric oats)

He has n't the wit to apply for votes:
He cannot e'en learn his election speech,
Three phrases he speaks, a mistake in each!
And then breaks down - but the borough
is won

For the Earl of Fitzdotterel's eldest son.

My Lord Tomnoddy prefers the Guards,
(The House is a bore) so, it's on the cards!
My Lord's a Lieutenant at twenty-three,
A Captain at twenty-six is he :
He never drew sword, except on drill;
The tricks of parade he has learnt but ill ;
A full-blown Colonel at thirty-one
Is the Earl of Fitzdotterel's eldest son!

What her eyes were like I know not :

Perhaps they were blurr'd with tears; And perhaps in yon skies there glow not (On the contrary) clearer spheres. No! as to her eyes I am just as wise As you or the cat, my dears.

Her teeth, I presume, were "pearly:" But which was she, brunette or blonde? Her hair, was it quaintly curly,

Or as straight as a beadle's wand?
That I fail'd to remark: it was rather dark
And shadowy round the pond.

Then the hand that repos'd so snugly
In mine, was it plump or spare?
Was the countenance fair or ugly?
Nay, children, you have me there!
My eyes were p'haps blurr'd; and besides
I'd heard

That it's horribly rude to stare.

And I, was I brusque and surly?

Or oppressively bland and fond?
Was I partial to rising early?
Or why did we twain abscond,

When nobody knew, from the public view To prowl by a misty pond?

What pass'd, what was felt or spoken, Whether anything pass'd at all,And whether the heart was broken That beat under that shelt'ring shawl, (If shawl she had on, which I doubt), — has gone,

Yes, gone from me past recall.

Was I haply the lady's suitor ?

Or her uncle? I can't make out; Ask your governess, dears, or tutor.

For myself, I'm in hopeless doubt As to why we were there, who on earth

we were,

And what this is all about.

BALLAD

PART I

THE auld wife sat at her ivied door,

(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) A thing she had frequently done before; And her spectacles lay on her apron'd knees.

The piper he pip'd on the hill-top high, (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) Till the cow said, "I die, " and the goose

asked "Why?" And the dog said nothing, but search'd for fleas.

The farmer he strode through the square farmyard;

(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) His last brew of ale was a trifle hard, The connection of which with the plot

one sees.

The farmer's daughter hath frank blue eyes; (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)