TO SERAPHINE.
Through happy years, that number now I ween
A dozen, or—to be correct—thirteen,
My comfortable better-half you've been,
O Seraphine!
The ups and downs of life we two have seen—
From Camberwell, of stucco-fronted mien,
To quaintly-decorated Turnham Green,
O Seraphine!
Till Grandma's money came with golden sheen,
You lent a hand at Sarah's weekly clean,
And did not tilt your nose at margarine,
O Seraphine!
And now that I've been made a Rural Dean,
Your figure is no longer slim, my Queen;
You'd scarcely make a graceful ballerine,
O Seraphine!
But after dinner as you doze each e'en,
From your disjointed mutterings I glean
Your mind is running on a crinoline,
O Seraphine!
Oh, let me not appear to speak with spleen—
Yet pause!—nor go to Madame Antonine
To get yourself a—you know what I mean,
O Seraphine!
For if that huge and hideous machine
Should thrust its bilious bulginess between
A blameless couple, such as we have been,
My Seraphine,
I will not condescend to make a "scene,"
But—if you needs must have your crinoline—
Good-bye!—you cannot have your Rural Dean,
O Seraphine!