And to make her cup of woe run over, Her elegant, ardent plighted lover Was the very first to forsake her; "He quite regretted the step, 't was true— The lady had pride enough 'for two,' But that alone would never do To quiet the butcher and baker!"
And now the unhappy Miss MacBride— The merest ghost of her early pride— Bewails her lonely position; Cramped in the very narrowest niche, Above the poor, and below the rich— Was ever a worse condition!
Because you flourish in worldly affairs, Don't be haughty, and put on airs, With insolent pride of station! Don't be proud, and turn up your nose At poorer people in plainer clothes, But learn, for the sake of your mind's repose, That wealth 's a bubble that comes—and goes! And that all proud flesh, wherever it grows, Is subject to irritation!
JOHN GODFREY SAXE.
ON AN OLD MUFF.
Time has a magic wand! What is this meets my hand, Moth-eaten, mouldy, and Covered with fluff, Faded and stiff and scant? Can it be? no, it can't,— Yes,—I declare 't is Aunt Prudence's Muff!
Years ago—twenty-three! Old Uncle Barnaby Gave it to Aunty P., Laughing and teasing,— "Pru. of the breezy curls, Whisper these solemn churls, What holds a pretty girl's Hand without squeezing?"
Uncle was then a lad, Gay, but, I grieve to add, Gone to what's called "the bad,"— Smoking,—and worse! Sleek sable then was this Muff, lined with pinkiness,— Bloom to which beauty is Seldom averse.
I see in retrospect Aunt, in her best bedecked, Gliding, with mien erect, Gravely to meeting: Psalm-book, and kerchief new, Peeped from the Muff of Pru., Young men—and pious, too— Giving her greeting.