THE QUEEN OF THE FÊTE.
By Alfred Tennyson.
I.—THE DAY BEFORE.
[To be read with liveliness.]
If you're waking, call me early, mother, fine, or wet, or bleak;
To-morrow is the happiest day of all the Ascot week;
It is the Chiswick fête, mother, of flowers and people gay,
And I'll be queen, if I may, mother, I'll be queen, if I may.
There's many a bright barege, they say, but none so bright as mine,
And whiter gloves, that have been cleaned, and smell of turpentine;