She strove the neighborhood to please
With manner wondrous winning;
And never followed wicked ways —
Unless when she was sinning.
At church in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size,
She never slumbered in her pew —
But when she shut her eyes.
Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux, and more;
The king himself has followed her —
When she has walked before.
But now, her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all;
Her doctors found, when she was dead —
Her last disorder mortal.
Let us lament in sorrow sore;
For Kent Street well may say
That, had she lived a twelve-month more —
She had not died to-day. — Goldsmith.
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The boy that delivered this piece was subject to cold chills, and went South.
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MARCH.
The stormy March is come at last,
With wind, and cloud, and changing skies;
I hear the rushing of the blast
That through the snowy valley flies.
Ah! passing few are they who speak,
Wild, stormy month, in praise of thee;
Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak,
Thou art a welcome month to me.
For thou to northern lands again
The glad and glorious sun dost bring,
And thou hast joined the gentle train,
And wear'st the gentle name of spring.
And in thy reign of blast and storm
Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day,
When the changed winds are soft and warm,
And heaven puts on the blue of May.
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page 88
© Laurel O'Donnell 1998 - 2005, all rights reserved
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