Poems

by S. C. Mercer

O Lulu! dear Lulu! most beautiful one,
Whose dark locks sweep over thy exquisite face,
As the wings of the tempest o’ershadow the sun,
Fair fawn of the forest, thy bright dwelling place,
Where the partridges, oysters and turtle were swallowed,
With catsups and pickles, and fixin’s more solid,
Was graced by no damsel so charming as thou
Or so hapless, the night I am writing of now.

Dear Lulu, sweet angel, was just coming out,
As they say, had just let the tucks out of her dresses,
Had such a sly ogle, and the prettiest pout,
And a coiffeur de Paris did up her tresses,
So her Ma, Mrs. Browne, to give her a start, she
Determined, one summer, to give her a party,
The rout of the season, where her darling Lulu
Might capture the town by her brilliant debut.
(They rig up blood-horses with ribbons, you know,
To make them sell quicker, when brought to the show.)
So she sent a darky round the town, with cards to the elite,
With “Mrs. Browne’s regards and she’ll be at home to-night.”

The clock struck ten, the carriages drew up before the gate,
The ton display their quality by coming rather late.
A crowd it was, you may be sure, of opulence and fashion,
For Mrs. Browne had for high life what one would call a passion.
There were satins, muslin, taffetas and laces, and illusion
Like all the rainbows since the flood crushed in one grand confusion,
And as her guests the parlor thronged, delighted Mrs. Browne
Felt just a notch or two above all rival Mas in town.

O feminine, O masculine embarrassment of riches!
For those who wore and those who longed for bifurcated breeches!
There was flouncing Miss Barege, and grass-widow, Madame Clack,
Miss Creame-Cocaine, the dreamer, whey-faced, of morals slack,
Miss Polly Prude, the finical, fastidious and precise,
Miss Reverie, a tall bas bleu with sentimental eyes,
Miss Twitchell, always twitching, Miss Giggle with her twitter,
Miss Dumb-Bell of the wallflower set, a most accomplished sitter,
All planets of the Milky Way; as for the herd of beaux,
Know one, know all—mustachios, gloves, smirks, bows and faultless clothes.

But for laughing and screaming and ogling and dancing,
Coquetting and ogling and sighing and glancing,
Madame Mazourka that night made her mark,
As a punk that took fire at the flash of each spark,
So high in her waltzing, so low in her dress, that
She really left gazers very little to guess at.
For each time that she bounded or gracefully fell—
For where her grace bounded, sin much more abounded—
Each curve was so plumply and gracefully rounded—
The dullest of eyes could discern the fine swell
Of her dress, and much more than is proper to tell.

I’ve a hearty contempt—I hope nobody’s hurt
For that pitiful nuisance, a married flirt,
Whether it wears a chemise or shirt,
For when the green season of myrtles is o’er
This wrinkled-faced courtship is rather a bore,
And the musk and the paint on an old married lover
Don’t smell quite as sweetly as newly mown clover.

O you who are wedded, take care how you walk!
For the world is suspicious and people will talk,
And spectators may say—no accounting for taste—
No arm but a husband’s should encircle the waist
Of a lady that’s married, in the waltz’s mad whirls,
And no finger but his should disport with her curls;
But back to my story—the sin of digression
It’s really becoming my crying transgression,
But your feelings will hurry you sometimes away,
And genius, kind reader, you know must have play.

You pardon? Well, then, to take up the thread
Of my story—the old folks were snoring in bed;
In the western horizon the moon kept her course,
The talkers were drowsy, the singers were hoarse,
When Lulu was strolling the cool walks among
While her beau held her ear as she didn’t her tongue.
Sweet Venus and Cupid o’er the wide earth held reign
And the pennons streamed gay o’er their Castles in Spain.

O Lulu, dear Lulu! magnificent belle—
Whose name is a charm and whose presence a spell,
Bright star ever shining in Memory’s stream,
You were gowned on that night in the very extreme
Of fashion, indeed quite a crinoline belle,
You spread yourself so, and you made such a swell,
Your dress circle being made after the pattern
Of the rings that the telescope shows around Saturn,
Not whalebone or cordage, but Carnegie’s best steel,
As when you dance with her next time you can feel.

Now, I do not blame Lulu for her fondness for dress
It’s a passion some people find hard to repress,
And take this excuse, dear reader, I beg;
Her grandma had left her a very fine leg-
Acy, so having abundance of means,
And being quite young—indeed still in her teens—
She dressed herself up in the climax of style,
“A miss”—in circumference—“as good as a mile.”