 | English Roses |  |
IN THE COUNTRY.
My dear Dolly, I sigh for the season
And the joys that I fully have proved;
But Papa, without semblance of reason,
Has got gout and so cannot be moved.
So I'm doing a budget of letters
To my cronies and cousins in Town,
Though I long for their glorious fetters—
You should see my last lovely tea-gown!
Here's the post! And that limp Lady Frances
(You know wedded to Timothy White),
At the length of three-volume romances,
Has just written to say she can't write.
And the joys that I fully have proved;
But Papa, without semblance of reason,
Has got gout and so cannot be moved.
So I'm doing a budget of letters
To my cronies and cousins in Town,
Though I long for their glorious fetters—
You should see my last lovely tea-gown!
Here's the post! And that limp Lady Frances
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At the length of three-volume romances,
Has just written to say she can't write.
And no news! Though a scatter-brain artist
Has come down with his Socialist lies,
Whom they once would have ducked as a Chartist
Though he now has episcopal ties,
And some Canons—for instance, old Sammy,
With the Toynbee delights for all needs,
And his lips that are rather too jammy
With impossible sugar plum creeds.
For their gospel is mere commissariat
Rounded off by the larder and shelves,
And to please the unwashed proletariat,
They say Jesus was one of themselves!
Has come down with his Socialist lies,
Whom they once would have ducked as a Chartist
Though he now has episcopal ties,
And some Canons—for instance, old Sammy,
With the Toynbee delights for all needs,
And his lips that are rather too jammy
With impossible sugar plum creeds.
For their gospel is mere commissariat
Rounded off by the larder and shelves,
And to please the unwashed proletariat,
They say Jesus was one of themselves!
All is fun in the country, they fable,
Who rejoice in the pleasures of Town;
Yet there's little but styes and the stable,
And the gossip they bring from the “Crown.”
While the farmers, who, if it were raining
Gold in showers would grumble for more,
At the drought on the hills are complaining,
As they calmly heap higher their store.
There's the annual scare about rab-i-es,
And the Councils are busy at play;
But far better go mad than have bab-i-es,
Like poor Lil, and with nothing to pay.
Who rejoice in the pleasures of Town;
Yet there's little but styes and the stable,
And the gossip they bring from the “Crown.”
While the farmers, who, if it were raining
Gold in showers would grumble for more,
At the drought on the hills are complaining,
As they calmly heap higher their store.
There's the annual scare about rab-i-es,
And the Councils are busy at play;
But far better go mad than have bab-i-es,
Like poor Lil, and with nothing to pay.
While you flutter in silks and in satins,
Scorning earth with fastidious toe,
I'm addicted to worship and matins
And a handsome new curate called “Joe.”
Yes, my heart (if I have one) is fractured,
With the feelings that fret under paint;
Though my piety is manufactured,
For the moment, to humour the saint.
And the Doctor pronounces my ilium
Has been damaged by tennis and strains,
And his caution's severe peristylium
Shuts me in to Tartarean pains.
Scorning earth with fastidious toe,
I'm addicted to worship and matins
And a handsome new curate called “Joe.”
Yes, my heart (if I have one) is fractured,
With the feelings that fret under paint;
Though my piety is manufactured,
For the moment, to humour the saint.
And the Doctor pronounces my ilium
Has been damaged by tennis and strains,
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Shuts me in to Tartarean pains.
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