To My Grandmother

Suggested by a picture by Mr. Romney

THIS Relative of mine,

Was she seventy-and-nine

When she died?

By the canvas may be seen

How she looked at seventeen,

As a bride.

Beneath a summer tree

Her maiden reverie

Has a charm;

Her ringlets are in taste;

What an arm! and what a waist

For an arm!

With her bridal-wreath, bouquet,

Lace farthingale, and gay

Falbala--

If Romney's touch be true,

What a lucky dog were you,

Grandpapa!

Her lips are sweet as love;

They are parting! Do they move?

Are they dumb?

Her eyes are blue and beam

Beseechingly, and seem

To say, "Come!"

What funny fancy slips

From atween these cherry lips?

Whisper me,

Fair Sorceress in paint,

What canon says I mayn't

Marry thee?

That good-for-nothing Time

Has a confidence sublime!

When I first

Saw this Lady, in my youth,

Her winters had, forsooth,

Done their worst.

Her locks, as white as snow,

Once shamed the swarthy crow;

By and by

That fowl's avenging sprite

Set his cruel foot for spite

Near her eye.

Her rounded form was lean,

And her silk was bombazine;

Well I wot

With her needles would she sit,

And for hours would she knit--

Would she not?

Ah perishable clay!

Her charms had dropped away

One by one;

But if she heaved a sigh

With a burthen, it was, "Thy

Will be done."

In travail, as in tears,

With the fardel of her years

Overpressed,

In mercy she was borne

Where the weary and the worn

Are at rest.

Oh, if you now are there,

And sweet as once you were,

Grandmamma,

This nether world agrees

You'll all the better please

Grandpapa.

Frederic Locker-Lampson

On an Old Muff

TIME has a magic wand!

What is this meets my hand,

Moth-eaten, moldy, and

Covered with fluff?

Faded, and stiff, and scant;

Can it be? No, it can't--

Yes, I declare, it's Aunt

Prudence's muff!

Years ago, twenty-three,

Old Uncle Doubledee

Gave it to Aunty P.

Laughing and teasing:

"Prue of the breezy curls,

Whisper those solemn churls,

What holds a pretty girl's

Hand without squeezing?"

Uncle was then a lad

Gay, but, I grieve to add,

Sinful, if smoking bad

Baccy's a vice;

Glossy was then this mink

Muff, lined with pretty pink

Satin, which maidens think

"Awfully nice."

I seem to see again

Aunt in her hood and train

Glide, with a sweet disdain,

Gravely to Meeting;

Psalm-book, and kerchief new,

Peeped from the Muff of Prue;

Young men, and pious too,

Giving her greeting.

Sweetly her Sabbath sped

Then; from this Muff, it's said,

Tracts she distributed;

Converts (till Monday!)

Lured by the grace they lacked,

Followed her. One, in fact,

Asked for -- and got -- his tract

Twice of a Sunday!

Love has a potent spell;

Soon this bold ne'er-do-well,

Aunt's too susceptible

Heart undermining,

Slipped, so the scandal runs,

Notes in the pretty nun's

Muff -- triple-cornered ones,

Pink as its lining.

Worse followed: soon the jade

Fled (to oblige her blade!)

Whilst her friends thought they'd

Locked her up tightly,

After such shocking games

Aunt is of wedded dames

Gayest, and now her name's

Mrs. Golightly.

In female conduct, flaw

Sadder I never saw.

Faith still I've in the law

Of compensation.

Once Uncle went astray,

Smoked, joked, and swore away;

Sworn by he's now, by a

Large congregation.

Changed is the Child of Sin;

Now he's (he once was thin)

Grave, with a double chin--

Blessed be his fat form!

Changed is the garb he wore,

Preacher was never more

Prized than is Uncle for

Pulpit or platform.

If all's as best befits

Mortals of slender wits,

Then beg this Muff and its

Fair Owner pardon.

All's for the best, indeed --

Such is my simple creed;

Still I must go and weed

Hard in my garden.

Frederic Locker-Lampson