THE HAT TO THE PARASOL.
(A Scherzo in Nobs and Sticks.)
Reflection polished of highbred
And unreflecting graces,
I scintillate o'er STREPHON's head
At gala, rout or races;
Mine is the black but comely blend,
And mine the crowning touches
That so demurely recommend
The dandy to the duchess.
Out on thee, cruel Parasol,
Of lace, the pearl, and satin;
And glinting like a fairy doll
With many a burnished patin;
Cool, charming as the dainty dame
Who twirls thy coromandel;
Thou flauntest proudly since thy name,
Like hers, can boast its handle!
The cynosure of wondering beaux,
I boast a soul above thee;
No fate can mar my calm repose,
Or make me cease to love thee;
Supreme above the common tile,
My own affronts unheeding,
I bow and compliment and smile,
The Chesterfield of breeding.
Out on thee, trinket idly swayed!
Could any courtier dare see,
Through such perfections so displayed,
The mere "Belle Dame sans merci"?
Could man believe a thing so soft,
So framed for gentle passion,
Might wound, and wound not once but oft
The jaunty glass of fashion?
Yet sooth it is; and here I stand
A martyr to my tenets—
That orthodoxy smooth and grand
Of LINCOLN's fane and BENNETT's;
Unruffled once and unperplexed,
Collapsing now like jelly,
And but a sermon on the text
Sic transit lux capelli.
I who have braved our fitful climes
And laughed when tempest drenches,
And shaken off the dust that grimes
Pews, cushioned stalls and benches,
Survived the counterblasting Row,
And Summer gales that roar so—
I ne'er imagined such a foe
Could trounce me to a torso.