Classic Poem

'T WAS June, and many a gossip wench,
Child-freighted trod the Central Mall;
I gain'd a white unpeopled bench,
And gaz'd upon the long Canal.
Beside me soon, in motley talk,
Boys, nursemaids sat, a varying race;
At length two females cross'd the walk,
And occupied the vacant space.

In years they seemed some forty-four,
Of dwarfish stature, vulgar mien;
A bonnet of black silk each wore,
And each a gown of bombazeen:
And, while in loud and careless tones
They dwelt upon their own concerns,
Ere long I learn'd that Mrs. Jones
Was one, and one was Mrs. Burns.

They talk'd of little Jane and John,
And hoped they'd come before 'twas dark,
Then wonder'd why, with pattens on,
One might not walk across the Park:
They call'd it far to Camden-town,
Yet hoped to reach it by-and-bye;
And thought it strange, since flour was down,
That bread should still continue high.

They said, last Monday's heavy gales
Had done a monstrous deal of ill;
Then tried to count the iron rails
That wound up Constitution-hill:
This 'larum sedulous to shun,
I donn'd my gloves, to march away,
When, as I gazed upon the one,
" Good Heavens! " I cried, " 'tis Nancy Gray. "

'Twas Nancy, whom I led along
The whitened and elastic floor,
Amid mirth's merry dancing throng,
Just two-and-twenty years before.
Though sadly altered, I knew her,
While she, 'twas obvious, knew me not;
But mildly said, " Good evening, Sir, "
And with her comrade left the spot.

" Is this, " I cried, in grief profound,
" The fair with whom, eclipsing all,
I traversed Ranelagh's bright round,
Or trod the mazes of Vauxhall?
And is this all that Time can do?
Has Nature nothing else in store?
Is this of lovely twenty-two,
All that remains at forty-four?

" Could I to such a helpmate cling?
Were such a wedded dowdy mine,
On yonder lamp-post would I swing,
Or plunge in yonder Serpentine! "
I left the Park with eyes askance,
But, ere I enter'd Cleveland-row,
Rude Reason thus threw in her lance,
And dealt self-love a mortal blow.

" Time, at whose touch all mortals bow,
From either sex his prey secures,
His scythe, while wounding Nancy's brow,
Can scarce have smoothly swept o'er yours;
By her you plainly were not known;
Then, while you mourn the alter'd hue
Of Nancy's face suspect your own
May be a little alter'd too. "