Classic Poem

It stands in the stable-yard, under the eaves,
Propped up by a broom-stick and covered with leaves:
It once was the pride of the gay and the fair,
But now 'tis a ruin, — that old Sedan chair!

It is battered and tattered, — it little avails
That once it was lacquered, and glistened with nails;
For its leather is cracked into lozenge and square,
Like a canvas by Wilkie, — that old Sedan chair!

See, — here came the bearing-straps; here were the holes
For the poles of the bearers — when once there were poles;
It was cushioned with silk, it was wadded with hair,
As the birds have discovered, — that old Sedan chair!

" Where's Troy? " says the poet! Look, — under the seat,
Is a nest with four eggs, — 'tis the favoured retreat
Of the Muscovy hen, who has hatched, I dare swear,
Quite an army of chicks in that old Sedan chair!

And yet — Can't you fancy a face in the frame
Of the window, — some high-headed damsel or dame,
Be-patched and be-powdered, just set by the stair,
While they raise up the lid of that old Sedan chair?

Can't you fancy Sir Plume, as beside her he stands,
With his ruffles a-droop on his delicate hands,
With his cinnamon coat, with his laced solitaire;
As he lifts her out light from that old Sedan chair?

Then it swings away slowly. Ah, many a league
It has trotted 'twixt sturdy-legged Terence and Teague;
Stout fellows! — but prone, on a question of fare,
To brandish the poles of that old Sedan chair!

It has waited by portals where Garrick has played;
It has waited by Heidegger's " Grand Masquerade; "
For my Lady Codille, for my Lady Bellair,
It has waited — and waited, that old Sedan chair!

Oh, the scandals it knows! Oh, the tales it could tell
Of Drum and Ridotto, of Rake and of Belle, —
Of Cock-fight and Levee, and (scarcely more rare!)
Of Fête-days at Tyburn, that old Sedan chair!

" Heu! quantum mutata , " I say as I go.
It deserves better fate than a stable-yard, though!
We must furbish it up, and dispatch it, — " With Care, " —
To a Fine-Art Museum — that old Sedan chair!