Fly Leaves | Page 6

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.
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 piped on the hill-top high,
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
Till the cow said "I die," and
the goose ask'd "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 connexion of which with the plot one sees.
The farmer's daughter hath frank blue eyes;
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
She hears the rooks caw in
the windy skies,
As she sits at her lattice and shells her peas.
The farmer's daughter hath ripe red lips;
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
If you try to approach her,
away she skips
Over tables and chairs with apparent ease.
The farmer's daughter hath soft brown hair;
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
And I met with a ballad, I
can't say where,
Which wholly consisted of lines like these.
PART II.
She sat with her hands 'neath her dimpled cheeks,
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
And spake not a word. While
a lady speaks
There is hope, but she didn't even sneeze.

She sat, with her hands 'neath her crimson cheeks;
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
She gave up mending her
father's breeks,
And let the cat roll in her new chemise.
She sat, with her hands 'neath her burning cheeks,
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
And gazed at the piper for
thirteen weeks;
Then she follow'd him out o'er the misty leas.
Her sheep follow'd her, as their tails did them.
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
And this song is consider'd a
perfect gem,
And as to the meaning, it's what you please.
PRECIOUS STONES.
AN INCIDENT IN MODERN HISTORY.
My Cherrystones! I prize them,
No tongue can tell how much!
Each lady caller eyes them,
And madly longs to touch!
At eve I lift them down, I look
Upon them, and I cry;
Recalling how my Prince 'partook'
(Sweet word!) of cherry-pie!
To me it was an Era
In life, that Dejeuner!
They ate, they sipp'd Madeira
Much in the usual way.
Many a soft item there would be,

No doubt, upon the carte:
But one made life a heaven to me:
It was the cherry-tart.
Lightly the spoonfuls enter'd
That mouth on which the gaze
Of ten fair girls was centred
In rapturous amaze.
Soon that august assemblage clear'd
The dish; and--as they ate -
The stones, all coyly, re-appear'd
On each illustrious plate.
And when His Royal Highness
Withdrew to take the air,
Waiving our natural shyness,
We swoop'd upon his chair.
Policemen at our garments clutch'd:
We mock'd those feeble powers;
And soon the treasures that had
touch'd
Exalted lips were ours!
One large one--at the moment
It seem'd almost divine -
Was got by that Miss Beaumont:
And three, O three, are mine!
Yes! the three stones that rest beneath
Glass, on that plain deal shelf,
Stranger, once dallied with the teeth
Of Royalty itself.
Let Parliament abolish
Churches and States and Thrones:
With reverent hand I'll polish

Still, still my Cherrystones!
A clod--a piece of orange-peel
An end of a cigar -
Once trod on by a Princely heel,
How beautiful they are!
Years since, I climb'd Saint Michael
His Mount:- you'll all go there
Of course, and those who like'll
Sit in Saint Michael's Chair:
For there I saw, within a frame,
The pen--O heavens! the pen -
With which a Duke had sign'd his
name,
And other gentlemen.
"Great among geese," I faltered,
"Is she who grew that quill!"
And, Deathless Bird, unalter'd
Is mine opinion still.
Yet sometimes, as I view my three
Stones with a thoughtful brow,
I think there possibly might be
E'en greater geese than thou.
DISASTER.
'Twas ever thus from childhood's hour!
My fondest hopes would not decay:
I never loved a tree or flower
Which was the first to fade away!
The garden, where I used to delve
Short-frock'd, still yields me pinks in plenty:
The peartree that I
climb'd at twelve

I see still blossoming, at twenty.
I never nursed a dear gazelle;
But I was given a parroquet -
(How I did nurse him if unwell!)
He's imbecile, but lingers yet.
He's green, with an enchanting tuft;
He melts me with his small black eye:
He'd look inimitable stuff'd,
And knows it--but he will not die!
I had a kitten--I was rich
In pets--but all too soon my kitten
Became a full-sized cat, by which
I've more