Volume Iv Part 13 (1/2)
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'!”