Who by her science can convert
My best and most expensive shirt
Into a miracle of dirt?
My Laundress!
Who, when my collars come back frayed,
Receives my protests undismayed,
And merely wishes to be paid?
My Laundress!
Who spite of warnings that one gives,
Turns cambric kerchiefs into sieves,
Or ragged trellis-work—and lives!
My Laundress!
Who at the wash-tub, truth to tell,
Is partly fraud and partly sell,
Yet does her "mangling" very well?
My Laundress!
THE POET'S LOVE.
My Lady's name I cannot state,
At different times I greet her
As Chloe, Amaryllis, Kate,
According to the metre;
I've called her Mabel many a time,—
A name which leads itself to rhyme.
My Lady's hair is sometimes black
To match her sable dresses,
At others falls about her back
In glorious auburn tresses,
Yet do not take me to imply
She's given to the use of dye.
I like her when she's sweet and small,
The daintiest of flowers,
I love her when, divinely tall,
Above the rest she towers;
And yet, as second thoughts suggest,
Perhaps a golden mean were best.
Sometimes, a simple rustic maid,
She strays through meadows green,
Sometimes her beauty is displayed
In glittering ball-room scene;
More recently I've thought upon
Creating her a lady-Don.
This peerless girl of whom I speak
I ever worship blindly
And sing her praises once a week,
If editors are kindly;
Alas, this paragon, I own,
Exists within my verse alone!
A Chilling Winter "draft."—That of The Home-Rule Bill.