IT stands in the stable-yard, under the eaves,
Propped up by a broom-stick and covered with leaves:
It once was the pride of the gay and the fair,
But now ’tis a ruin,—that old Sedan chair!
It is battered and tattered,—it little avails
That once it was lacquered, and glistened with nails;
For its leather is cracked into lozenge and square,
Like a canvas by Wilkie,—that old Sedan chair!
See,—here came the bearing-straps; here were the holes
For the poles of the bearers—when once there were poles;
It was cushioned with silk, it was wadded with hair,
As the birds have discovered,—that old Sedan chair!
“Where’s Troy?” says the poet! Look,—under the seat,
Is a nest with four eggs,—’tis the favored retreat
Of the Muscovy hen, who has hatched, I dare swear,
Quite an army of chicks in that old Sedan chair!
And yet—can’t you fancy a face in the frame
Of the window,—some high-headed damsel or dame,
Be-patched and be-powdered, just set by the stair,
While they raise up the lid of that old Sedan chair?
Can’t you fancy Sir Plume, as beside her he stands,
With his ruffles a-droop on his delicate hands,
With his cinnamon coat, with his laced solitaire,
As he lifts her out light from that old Sedan chair?
Then it swings away slowly. Ah, many a league
It has trotted ’twixt sturdy-legged Terence and Teague;
Stout fellows!—but prone, on a question of fare,
To brandish the poles of that old Sedan chair!
It has waited by portals where Garrick has played;
It has waited by Heidegger’s “Grand Masquerade”;
For my Lady Codille, for my Lady Bellair,
It has waited—and waited, that old Sedan chair!
Oh, the scandals it knows! Oh, the tales it could tell
Of Drum and Ridotto, of Rake and of Belle,—
Of Cock-fight and Levee, and (scarcely more rare!)
Of Fête-days at Tyburn, that old Sedan chair!
“Heu! _quantum mutata_,” I say as I go.
It deserves better fate than a stable-yard, though!
We must furbish it up, and dispatch it—“With care,”—
To a Fine-Art Museum—that old Sedan chair!
_Austin Dobson._
“LE ROMAN DE LA ROSE”
POOR Rose! I lift you from the street,—
Far better I should own you
Than you should lie for random feet
Where careless hands have thrown you.
Poor pinky petals, crushed and torn!
Did heartless Mayfair use you,
Then cast you forth to lie forlorn,
For chariot-wheels to bruise you?
I saw you last in Edith’s hair,
Rose, you would scarce discover
That I she passed upon the stair
Was Edith’s favoured lover.
A month—“a little month”—ago—
O theme for moral writer!—
’Twixt you and me, my Rose, you know,
She might have been politer;
But let that pass. She gave you then—
Behind the oleander—
To one, perhaps, of all the men—
Who best could understand her,—
Cyril, that, duly flattered, took,
As only Cyril’s able,
With just the same Arcadian look
He used, last night, for Mabel;
Then, having waltzed till every star
Had paled away in morning,
Lit up his cynical cigar,
And tossed you downward, scorning.
Kismet, my Rose! Revenge is sweet,—
She made my heart strings quiver;
And yet—You sha’n’t lie in the street;
I’ll drop you in the river.
_Austin Dobson._