And leading the Patten-makers,
Over their very pattens in the mud,—
O Lud! O Lud! O Lud!
“This is a sorry sight,”
To quote Macbeth—but oh, it grieves me quite,
To see your Wives and Daughters in their plumes—
White plumes not white—
Sitting at open windows catching rheums,
Not “Angels ever bright and fair,”
But angels ever brown and sallow,