London lyrics by Frederick Locker Lampson: With introduction and notes by Austin Dobson |
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REPLY TO A LETTER ENCLOSING A LOCK OF HAIR |
 | London lyrics |  |
83
REPLY TO A LETTER ENCLOSING A LOCK OF HAIR
She laugh'd—she climb'd the giddy height;
I held that climber small;
I even held her rather tight,
For fear that she should fall.
A dozen girls were chirping round,
Like five-and-twenty linnets;—
I must have held her, I'll be bound,
Some five-and-twenty minutes.
I held that climber small;
I even held her rather tight,
For fear that she should fall.
A dozen girls were chirping round,
Like five-and-twenty linnets;—
I must have held her, I'll be bound,
Some five-and-twenty minutes.
Yes, you were false, and, though I'm free,
I still would be that slave of yore;
Then, join'd, our years were thirty-three,
And now,—yes now I'm thirty-four.
And though you were not learnèd . . . well,
I was not anxious you should grow so;—
I trembled once beneath her spell
Whose spelling was extremely so-so.
I still would be that slave of yore;
Then, join'd, our years were thirty-three,
And now,—yes now I'm thirty-four.
And though you were not learnèd . . . well,
I was not anxious you should grow so;—
I trembled once beneath her spell
Whose spelling was extremely so-so.
Bright season! why will Memory
Still haunt the path our rambles took;
The sparrow's nest that made you cry,
The lilies captured in the brook?
I'd lifted you from side to side,
You seem'd as light as that poor sparrow;
I know who wish'd it twice as wide,—
I think you thought it rather narrow.
Still haunt the path our rambles took;
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The lilies captured in the brook?
I'd lifted you from side to side,
You seem'd as light as that poor sparrow;
I know who wish'd it twice as wide,—
I think you thought it rather narrow.
Time was, indeed a little while,
My pony could your heart compel;
And once, beside the meadow-stile,
I thought you loved me just as well;
I'd kiss'd your cheek; in sweet surprise
Your troubled gaze said plainly, “Should he?”
But doubt soon fled those daisy eyes,—
“He could not mean to vex me, could he?”
My pony could your heart compel;
And once, beside the meadow-stile,
I thought you loved me just as well;
I'd kiss'd your cheek; in sweet surprise
Your troubled gaze said plainly, “Should he?”
But doubt soon fled those daisy eyes,—
“He could not mean to vex me, could he?”
The brightest eyes are soonest sad,
But your rose cheek, so lightly sway'd,
Could ripple into dimples glad;
For oh, fair Friend, what mirth we made!
The brightest tears are soonest dried,
But your young love and dole were stable;
You wept when dear old Rover died,
You wept—and dress'd your dolls in sable.
But your rose cheek, so lightly sway'd,
Could ripple into dimples glad;
For oh, fair Friend, what mirth we made!
The brightest tears are soonest dried,
But your young love and dole were stable;
You wept when dear old Rover died,
You wept—and dress'd your dolls in sable.
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As year succeeds to year, the more
Imperfect life's fruition seems;
Our dreams, as baseless as of yore,
Are not the same enchanting dreams.
The girls I love now vote me slow,
How dull the boys who once seem'd witty!
Perhaps I'm growing old, I know
I'm still romantic, more's the pity.
Imperfect life's fruition seems;
Our dreams, as baseless as of yore,
Are not the same enchanting dreams.
The girls I love now vote me slow,
How dull the boys who once seem'd witty!
Perhaps I'm growing old, I know
I'm still romantic, more's the pity.
Vain the regret! To few, perchance,
Unknown, and profitless to all:
The wisely-gay, as years advance,
Are gaily-wise. Whate'er befall,
We'll laugh at folly, whether seen
Beneath a chimney or a steeple;
At yours, at mine—our own, I mean,
As well as that of other people.
Unknown, and profitless to all:
The wisely-gay, as years advance,
Are gaily-wise. Whate'er befall,
We'll laugh at folly, whether seen
Beneath a chimney or a steeple;
At yours, at mine—our own, I mean,
As well as that of other people.
I'm fond of fun, the mental dew
Where wit, and truth, and ruth are blent;
And yet I've known a prig or two,
Who, wanting all, were all content!
To say I hate such dismal men
Might be esteem'd a strong assertion;
If I've blue devils, now and then,
I make them dance for my diversion.
Where wit, and truth, and ruth are blent;
And yet I've known a prig or two,
Who, wanting all, were all content!
To say I hate such dismal men
Might be esteem'd a strong assertion;
If I've blue devils, now and then,
I make them dance for my diversion.
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And here's your letter debonair—
“My Friend, my dear old Friend of yore,”
And is this curl your daughter's hair?
I've seen the Titian tint before.
Are we the pair that used to pass
Long days beneath the chestnut shady?
You then were such a pretty lass;
I'm told you're now as fair a lady.
“My Friend, my dear old Friend of yore,”
And is this curl your daughter's hair?
I've seen the Titian tint before.
Are we the pair that used to pass
Long days beneath the chestnut shady?
You then were such a pretty lass;
I'm told you're now as fair a lady.
I've laugh'd to hide the tear I shed,
As when the jester's bosom swells,
And mournfully he shakes his head,
We hear the jingle of his bells.
A jesting vein your poet vex'd,
And this poor rhyme, the Fates determine,
Without a parson or a text,
Has proved a rather prosy sermon.
As when the jester's bosom swells,
And mournfully he shakes his head,
We hear the jingle of his bells.
A jesting vein your poet vex'd,
And this poor rhyme, the Fates determine,
Without a parson or a text,
Has proved a rather prosy sermon.
1859.
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