For a bare two hundred and fifty years;
You, Georgina, we always reckoned
One of the younger set.
Winter's cold and the influenza
Wreaked and ravaged the ranks among;
Bills that babbled a gay cadenza,
Snouts that snuffled and claws that clung—
Now they whistle and root and run
In Happy Valleys beyond the sun;
Never back to the ponds and pens a