HORACE IN LONDON.
TO A SKITTISH GRANDMOTHER. (AD CHLORIN.)
FORBEAR this painted show to strut
Of girlish toilet, manner skittish:
It may be Fin-de-Siècle, but
It isn't British.
To dance, to swell the betting rank,
To rival 'ARRIET at Marlow;
To try to break your husband's bank
At Monte Carlo,
Would ill beseem your daughter "smart;"
The vulgar slang of bacchant mummers,
If act you must is scarce the part
For sixty summers.
Let Age be decent: keep your hair
Confined, if nothing else, to one dye:
I'd rather see you, I declare,
Like Mrs. GRUNDY!