My dear Daddie bought a mansion
For to bring my Mammie to,
In a hat with a long feather,
And a trailing gown of blue;
And a company of fiddlers
And a rout of maids and men
Danced the clock round to the morning,
In a gay house-warming then.
And when all the guests were gone, and
All was still as still can be,
In from the dark ivy hopped a
Wee small bird: and that was Me.
"Peacock Pie" is immortal diet indeed, as Sir Walter said of his scrip
of joy. Annealed as we are, I think it will discompose the most callous.
It is a sweet feverfew for the heats of the spirit, It is full of
outlets of sky.
As for Mr. de la Mare himself, he is a modest man and keeps behind his
songs. Recently he paid his first visit to America, and we may hope that
even on Fifth Avenue he saw some fairies. He lectured at some of our
universities and endured the grotesque plaudits of dowagers and
professors who doubtless pretended to have read his work. Although he is
forty-four, and has been publishing for nearly sixteen years, he has
evaded "Who's Who." He lives in London, is married, and has four
children. For a number of years he worked for the Anglo-American Oil
Company. Truly the Muse sometimes lends to her favourites a merciful
hardiness.