Follow, my Betsey-Jane, as best you can,
Clutching your Mother’s fingers in firm hold,
The sable progress of the serving-man,
Nor stumble on your shawl’s imperial fold;
Whose ceremonious pin of jade and gold
Bringeth such rosy awe into your face
As the white frock, the stockings silken-soled
And the white shoes (with pompons) which will grace
The lightness of your feet in this illumined place.
Shawls being shed, descend the ample stair
And greet our Hostess. Now you’re set to see
The Conjurer, nor think to leave your chair
For safer eyrie of your Mother’s knee;—
Still, as his tricks are tedious to Three
And strange the flounce-clad children in their tiers,
Turn your shy back on wiles and wizardry
To hug, for comfort’s sake, two homely bears
And a prepost’rous poodle, white with knitted ears.
For tea, gramercie to a thoughtful choice
And nice derangement of the chairs, your seat
Faces a fair acquaintance known as Joyce;—
What glances under glossy tresses greet
The fellow-connoisseur of cake and sweet
Till the last cracker’s pulled on the last plate.
Now sidle through the dancers’ tortuous feet
And come at last, for the time waxes late,
Where in their cloudy breath the shadowy horses wait.
Glow the two tawny lanterns on the hedge,
Gleam the ungainly boughs the window blurs,
And Betsey nodding on the seat’s soft edge
Holds to her heart those pompon’d shoes of hers;
Till in my arms, most spent of revellers,
I lift her slumb’ring whom nor lifting grieves
Nor sudden stay nor the cold night wind stirs,
Borne up the path through fragrance of box-leaves,
Up to her drowsy cot under dependent eaves.