The time for Pen and Sword was when
"My ladye fayre," for pity
Could tend her wounded knight, and then
Grow tender at his ditty!
Some ladies now make pretty songs,—
And some make pretty nurses:—
Some men are good for righting wrongs,—
And some for writing verses.
I wish We better understood
The tax that poets levy!—
I know the Muse is very good—
I think she's rather heavy:
She now compounds for winning ways
By morals of the sternest—
Methinks the lays of now-a-days
Are painfully in earnest.
When Wisdom halts, I humbly try
To make the most of Folly:
If Pallas be unwilling, I
Prefer to flirt with Polly,—
To quit the goddess for the maid
Seems low in lofty musers—
But Pallas is a haughty jade—
And beggars can't be choosers.
I do not wish to see the slaves
Of party, stirring passion,
Or psalms quite superseding staves,
Or piety "the fashion."
I bless the Hearts where pity glows,
Who, here together banded,
Are holding out a hand to those
That wait so empty-handed!
A righteous Work!—My Masters, may
A Jester by confession,
Scarce noticed join, half sad, half gay,
The close of your procession?
The motley here seems out of place
With graver robes to mingle,
But if one tear bedews his face,
Forgive the bells their jingle.
THE OLD CRADLE.
And this was your Cradle? why, surely, my Jenny,
Such slender dimensions go somewhat to show
You were a delightfully small Pic-a-ninny
Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago.