The Ingoldsby Legends or, Mirth and Marvels. By Thomas Ingoldsby [i.e. R. H. Barham] |
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THE POPLAR. |
 | The Ingoldsby Legends |  |
THE POPLAR.
Ay, here stands the Poplar, so tall and so stately,
On whose tender rind—'twas a little one then—
We carved her initials; though not very lately—
We think in the year eighteen hundred and ten.
On whose tender rind—'twas a little one then—
We carved her initials; though not very lately—
We think in the year eighteen hundred and ten.
Yes, here is the G which proclaimed Georgiana;
Our heart's empress then; see, 'tis grown all askew;
And it's not without grief we perforce entertain a
Conviction, it now looks much more like a Q.
Our heart's empress then; see, 'tis grown all askew;
And it's not without grief we perforce entertain a
Conviction, it now looks much more like a Q.
This should be the great D too, that once stood for Dobbin,
Her lov'd patronymic—ah! can it be so?
It's once fair proportions, time too, has been robbing;
A D?—we'll be Deed if it is n't an O!
Her lov'd patronymic—ah! can it be so?
It's once fair proportions, time too, has been robbing;
A D?—we'll be Deed if it is n't an O!
Alas! how the soul sentimental it vexes,
That thus on our labours, stern Chronos should frown;
Should change our soft liquids to izzards and X es,
And turn true-love's alphabet all upside down!
That thus on our labours, stern Chronos should frown;
Should change our soft liquids to izzards and X es,
And turn true-love's alphabet all upside down!
| The Ingoldsby Legends | |