A LADY OF FASHION ON
THE DEATH OF HER DOG
“Amongst the many others that were present that Cup Day were ... Mr. and Mrs. W.—— L.—— (the latter by the way has just lost a dear dog in London).”—The Lady.
I am not lightly moved, my grief was dumb At Great-Aunt Cohen’s death, nor did I whine When Uncle Monty did at last succumb, Aged close on sixty-nine.
Dear are my friends, and yet my heart still light is, Undimmed the eyes that see our set depart, Snatched from the Season by appendicitis Or something quite as smart.
But when my Chin-Chin drew his latest breath On Marie’s out-spread apron, slow and wheezily, I simply sniffed, I could not take his death So Pekineasily.
All day at Goodwood, where I planned to go, Superb in pink and Coronation-blue, I mourned, until my husband sought to know What good would mourning do?
“Fool,” I replied, “grief courts these sad ovations, And many press my sable-suèded hand, Noting the blackest of Lucile’s creations, Inquire, and understand:
And he who lies among the plane-trees shady, May rest in peace below the fallen leaf, For one, the Correspondent of ‘The Lady,’ Shares and respects my grief.”