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[Decoration]
CHARLES d.i.c.kENS.
1812-1870.
_THE IVY GREEN._
Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green, That creepeth o'er ruins old!
Of right choice food are his meals I ween, In his cell so lone and cold.
The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed, To pleasure his dainty whim: And the mouldering dust that years have made Is a merry meal for him.
Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the Ivy green.
Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, And a staunch old heart has he.
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings, To his friend, the huge Oak tree!
And slily he traileth along the ground, And his leaves he gently waves, As he joyously hugs and crawleth round The rich mould of dead men's graves.
Creeping where grim death has been, A rare old plant is the Ivy green.
Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, And nations have scattered been; But the stout old Ivy shall never fade From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant in its lonely days Shall fatten upon the past: For the stateliest building man can raise Is the Ivy's food at last.
Creeping on, where time has been, A rare old plant is the Ivy green.
[Decoration]
AUSTIN DOBSON.
1840.
_THE LADIES OF ST. JAMES'S._
A PROPER NEW BALLAD OF THE COUNTRY AND THE TOWN.
The ladies of St. James's Go swinging to the play; Their footmen run before them, With a "Stand by! Clear the way!"
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
She takes her buckled shoon, When we go out a-courting Beneath the harvest moon.
The ladies of St. James's Wear satin on their backs; They sit all night at _Ombre_, With candles all of wax: But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
She dons her russet gown, And runs to gather May dew Before the world is down.
The ladies of St. James's They are so fine and fair, You 'd think a box of essences Was broken in the air: But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
The breath of heath and furze, When breezes blow at morning, Is scarce so fresh as hers.
The ladies of St. James's They 're painted to the eyes; Their white it stays forever, Their red it never dies: But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Her color comes and goes; It trembles to a lily, It wavers to a rose.
The ladies of St. James's, With "Mercy!" and with "Lud!"
They season all their speeches (They come of n.o.ble blood): But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Her shy and simple words Are sweet as, after rain-drops, The music of the birds.
The ladies of St. James's, They have their fits and freaks; They smile on you--for seconds, They frown on you--for weeks: But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Come either storm or s.h.i.+ne, From Shrovetide unto Shrovetide Is always true--and mine.
My Phyllida, my Phyllida!
I care not though they heap The hearts of all St. James's, And give me all to keep; I care not whose the beauties Of all the world may be, For Phyllida--for Phyllida Is all the world to me!
[Decoration]
_THE MILKMAID._
A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE.
Across the gra.s.s I see her pa.s.s; She comes with tripping pace,-- A maid I know,--and March winds blow Her hair across her face;-- With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!
Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine.
The March winds blow. I watch her go: Her eye is brown and clear; Her cheek is brown and soft as down (To those who see it near!)-- With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!
Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine.
What has she not that they have got,-- The dames that walk in silk!
If she undo her 'kerchief blue, Her neck is white as milk.
With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!
Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine.
Let those who will be proud and chill!
For me, from June to June, My Dolly's words are sweet as curds,-- Her laugh is like a tune;-- With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!
Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine.
Break, break to hear, O crocus-spear!
O tall Lent-lilies, flame!
There 'll be a bride at Easter-tide, And Dolly is her name.
[Ill.u.s.tration: Full-page Plate]
With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!
Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine.
[Decoration]
[Decoration]
ALFRED DOMETT.
