AUSTIN DOBSON.

1840.

THE LADIES OF ST. JAMES’S.
A PROPER NEW BALLAD OF THE COUNTRY AND THE TOWN.

T he 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 scarce so fresh as hers. The ladies of St. James’s They ’re painted to the eyes; Their white it stays forever, 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, With “Mercy!” and with “Lud!” They season all their speeches (They come of noble blood): But Phyllida, my Phyllida! Her shy and simple words Are sweet 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 shine, From Shrovetide unto Shrovetide 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!

THE MILKMAID.
A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE. A cross the grass I see her pass; She comes with tripping pace,— A maid I know,—and March winds blow Her hair across her face;— With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine. The March winds blow. I watch her go: Her eye is brown and clear; Her cheek is brown and soft as down (To those who see it near!)— With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine. What has she not that they have got,— The dames that walk in silk! If she undo her ’kerchief blue, Her neck is white as milk. With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine. Let those who will be proud and chill! For me, from June to June, My Dolly’s words are sweet as curds,— Her laugh is like a tune;— With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine. Break, break to hear, O crocus-spear! O tall Lent-lilies, flame! There ’ll be a bride at Easter-tide, And Dolly is her name. With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine.