Classic Poem

A PROPER NEW BALLAD OF THE COUNTRY AND THE TOWN

The ladies of St. James's
— Go swinging to the play;
Their footmen run before them,
— With a " Stand by! Clear the way! "
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
— She takes her buckled shoon,
When we go out a-courting
— Beneath the harvest moon.

The ladies of St. James's
— Wear satin on their backs;
They sit all night at Ombre ,
— With candles all of wax:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
— She dons her russet gown,
And runs to gather May dew
— Before the world is down.

The ladies of St. James's!
— They are so fine and fair,
You'd think a box of essences
— Was broken in the air:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
— The breath of heath and furze
When breezes blow at morning,
— Is not so fresh as hers.

The ladies of St. James's!
— They're painted to the eyes;
Their white it stays for ever,
— Their red it never dies:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
— Her color comes and goes;
It trembles to a lily, —
— It wavers to a rose.

The ladies of St. James's!
— You scarce can understand
The half of all their speeches,
— Their phrases are so grand:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
— Her shy and simple words
Are clear as after rain-drops
— The music of the birds.

The ladies of St. James's!
— They have their fits and freaks;
They smile on you — for seconds,
— They frown on you — for weeks:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
— Come either storm or shine,
From Shrove-tide unto Shrove-tide,
— Is always true — and mine.

My Phyllida! my Phyllida!
— I care not though they heap
The hearts of all St. James's,
— And give me all to keep;
I care not whose the beauties
— Of all the world may be,
For Phyllida — for Phyllida
— Is all the world to me!