Though a dark-looking stain on the drawing-room floor,
Might have hinted a story of guilt
To the brains of a Spinner of Tales by the score,
Who had lifted the carpet (’twas just by the door),
Where some blood—or some beer—had been spilt.
No roses climbed over the mansion, but bowers
As dwellings are terribly “slow,”
Some flower-pots stood in the yard, and the showers
Still watered the mould and the sticks, but the flowers
Were potted some ages ago.
Miss Gray, as we’ve said, was an old maid confest,
Who of “offers” had had just a score,
(Did you e’er know a lady not quite at her best,
Who hadn’t been bothered with many a pest,
In the shape of a man, or a bore?)
Her income sufficed for herself and a maid,
Extremely good looking and young;
But, like all pretty girls, a most tiresome jade,
She gave her poor mistress not much of her aid,
And a very great deal of her tongue.
One morning in summer, the weather was fine,
But the lady was still in her bed,
Though the church (if there is one) was just striking nine,
When the door-bell rang out like a summons to dine,
And the fair one uplifted her head,
Rose, passed from the room, and leaned over the stairs
To listen—What mortal can blame?
’Twas a failing she had (knowing all men are bears),
That she liked to “drop down” on the maid “unawares,”
If she thought that a “follower” came.
Why that start of amazement—that look of surprise,
Why those feelings that fast men call “queer?”
To Jane’s “What do you want, sir?” a deep voice replies:—
“I die for your mistress, my dear.”
“For me is he dying? oh! beg him to wait,
I’ll be down, Jane, as soon as I can,”
(For her costume was then in a terrible state,
Loose and white like a Muse, or a Grace, or a Fate,
Ere crinoline fashions began.)
She had dined not long since at a rustic retreat,
Near Kennington Oval, or Square,
Where a gentleman filling a neighbouring seat,
Had gazed in a manner that’s fondly called “sweet,”
As he helped her to jelly with hare.
Could it chance to be he—it was early, but then,
Love visits both early and late:
Of course, she still hated “those horrible men,”
But she liked to encourage a little, and then—
Oh, dear! she was making him wait.
Her toilet complete, she descended in haste,
All a-flutter her lover to scan.
Just paused at the stair-foot (she’d exquisite taste),
To tighten a little the cord at her waist,
And moved forward to look at the man.
