IN days when George the Third was King
And ruled the Old Dominion,
And Law and Fashion owned the sway
Of Parliament’s opinion,
A good ship brought across the sea
A treasure fair and fine,—
Miss Nancy’s gown from London Town,
The latest Court design!
The plaited waist from neck to belt
Scarce measured half a span;
The sleeves, balloon-like, at the top
Could hold her feather fan;
The narrow skirt with bias gore
Revealed an ankle neat,
Whene’er she put her dainty foot
From carriage step to street!
By skilful hands this wondrous gown
Of costliest stuff was made,
Cocoons of France on Antwerp looms
Wrought to embossed brocade,
Where roses red and violets
In blooming beauty grew,
As if young May were there alway,
And June and April too!
And from this bower of delight
Miss Nancy reigned a Queen,
Nor one disloyal heart rebelled
In all her wild demesne:
The noble House of Burgesses
Forgot its fierce debate
O’er rights of Crown, when Nancy’s gown
Appeared in Halls of State!
Through jocund reel, or measured tread
Of stately minuet,
Like fairy vision shone the bloom
Of rose and violet,
As, hand in hand with Washington,
The hero of the day,
The smiling face and nymph-like grace
Of Nancy led the way!
A century, since that gay time
The merry dance was trod,
Has passed, and Nancy long has slept
Beneath the churchyard sod;
Yet on the brocade velvet gown
The rose and violet
Are blooming bright as on the night
She danced the minuet!
_Zitella Cocke._
“LE DERNIER JOUR D’UN CONDAMNÉ”
OLD coat, for some three or four seasons
We’ve been jolly comrades, but now
We part, old companion, forever;
To fate, and the fashion, I bow.
You’d look well enough at a dinner,
I’d wear you with pride at a ball;
But I’m dressing to-night for a wedding—
My own—and you’d not do at all.
You’ve too many wine-stains about you,
You’re scented too much with cigars,
When the gaslight shines full on your collar
It glitters with myriad stars,
That wouldn’t look well at my wedding;
They’d seem inappropriate there—
Nell doesn’t use diamond powder.
She tells me it ruins the hair.
You’ve been out on Cozzen’s piazza
Too late, when the evenings were damp,
When the moon-beams were silvering Cro’nest,
And the lights were all out in the camp.
You’ve rested on highly-oiled stairways
Too often, when sweet eyes were bright.
And somebody’s ball dress—not Nellie’s—
Flowed ’round you in rivers of white.
There’s a reprobate looseness about you;
Should I wear you to-night, I believe,
As I come with my bride from the altar,
You’d laugh in your wicked old sleeve,
When you felt there the tremulous pressure
Of her hand, in its delicate glove,
That is telling me shyly, but proudly,
Her trust is as deep as her love.
So, go to your grave in the wardrobe,
And furnish a feast for the moth,
Nell’s glove shall betray its sweet secrets
To younger, more innocent cloth.
’Tis time to put on your successor—
It’s made in a fashion that’s new;
Old coat, I’m afraid it will never
Sit as easily on me as you.
_George A. Baker._