 | Lyrical Poems |  |
176
THE BROWN GOWN.
Jenny, what's this?
There's something amiss
About you to-day, though I can't tell what;
'Tis not in the grace
Of your arch-smiling face,
Nor yet in the beautiful bend of your hat.
Yes! now I perceive, you who used to be drest,
Like glorious June in her Sunday vest,
Have doffed your colours, and donned a gown
Of a muddy and meaningless snuffy old brown;
C'est une grande bétise, ma chèere!
There's something amiss
About you to-day, though I can't tell what;
'Tis not in the grace
Of your arch-smiling face,
Nor yet in the beautiful bend of your hat.
Yes! now I perceive, you who used to be drest,
Like glorious June in her Sunday vest,
Have doffed your colours, and donned a gown
Of a muddy and meaningless snuffy old brown;
C'est une grande bétise, ma chèere!
Tell me, did you ever
By lake or by river
See brown primroses prinking the grass?
And wouldn't it be silly,
If rose or lily
Were blooming in brown, when the meadow you pass?
There are flowers of purple, and blue, and gold,
And green is the carpet that covers the mould;
But brown is no blossom, and why should you,
The fairest of flowers, wear so dingy a hue?
C'est une grande bétise, ma chèere!
By lake or by river
See brown primroses prinking the grass?
177
If rose or lily
Were blooming in brown, when the meadow you pass?
There are flowers of purple, and blue, and gold,
And green is the carpet that covers the mould;
But brown is no blossom, and why should you,
The fairest of flowers, wear so dingy a hue?
C'est une grande bétise, ma chèere!
For brown is a colour
No hue can be duller;
Brown are green leaves when their glory is fled,
The cold grey stone
Calls the brown moss its own,
And brown is the dust which we fling on the dead.
Brown are the tadpoles in muddy abodes,
Earwigs and beetles, and adders and toads;
But that a fair maid should envelope her charms
In brown, like a Venus in Pluto's grim arms,
C'est une grande bétise, ma chèere!
No hue can be duller;
Brown are green leaves when their glory is fled,
The cold grey stone
Calls the brown moss its own,
And brown is the dust which we fling on the dead.
Brown are the tadpoles in muddy abodes,
Earwigs and beetles, and adders and toads;
But that a fair maid should envelope her charms
In brown, like a Venus in Pluto's grim arms,
C'est une grande bétise, ma chèere!
Then, Jenny, be wise,
And don't vex my eyes
With a gown of this muddy and meaningless hue;
I'd as soon see Apollo
Ride Heaven's blue hollow,
Like a Capuchin monk, or an Old Clothes Jew.
Put on the bright robe, the delight of young Cupid,
When you look so clever, and men look so stupid;
For not even you for a Grace will go down,
When swathed in wide volumes of snuffy old brown.
Laissez donc cette bétise, ma chèere!
And don't vex my eyes
With a gown of this muddy and meaningless hue;
178
Ride Heaven's blue hollow,
Like a Capuchin monk, or an Old Clothes Jew.
Put on the bright robe, the delight of young Cupid,
When you look so clever, and men look so stupid;
For not even you for a Grace will go down,
When swathed in wide volumes of snuffy old brown.
Laissez donc cette bétise, ma chèere!
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