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 'tis 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,

Sinful: if smoking bad

_Baccy's_ a vice:

Glossy was then this mink

Muff, lined with pretty pink

Satin, which maidens think

"Awfully nice!"

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.

Pure was the life she led

Then--from this Muff, 'tis said,

Tracts she distributed:--

Scapegraces many,

Seeing the grace they lacked,

Followed her--one, in fact,

Asked for--and got his tract

Oftener than any.

Love has a potent spell!

Soon this bold Ne'er-do-well,

Aunt's sweet susceptible

Heart undermining,

Slipped, so the scandal runs,

Notes in the pretty nun's

Muff--triple-cornered ones--

Pink as its lining!

Worse even, soon the jade

Fled (to oblige her blade!)

Whilst her friends thought that they'd

Locked her up tightly:

After such shocking games

Aunt is of wedded dames

Gayest--and now her name's

Mrs. Golightly.

In female conduct flaw

Sadder I never saw,

Still I've faith in the law

Of compensation.

Once Uncle went astray--

Smoked, joked, and swore away--

Sworn by, he's now, by a

Large congregation!

Changed is the Child of Sin,

Now he's (he once was thin)

Grave, with a double chin,--

Blest be his fat form!

Changed is the garb he wore,--

Preacher was never more

Prized than is Uncle for

Pulpit or platform.

If all's as best befits

Mortals of slender wits,

Then beg this Muff, and its

Fair Owner pardon:

_All's for the best_,--indeed

Such is _my_ simple creed--

Still I must go and weed

Hard in my garden.

A Selection from the Works of Frederick Locker · 第 13 / 91 题