Suggested by a Picture by Mr. Romney
THIS relative of mine,
Was she seventy-and-nine
When she died?
By the canvas may be seen
How she looked at seventeen,
As a bride.
Beneath a summer tree,
Her maiden reverie
Has a charm;
Her ringlets are in taste;
What an arm!… what a waist
For an arm!...
A WIDOW—she had only one!
A puny and decrepit son;
But, day and night,
Though fretful oft, and weak and small,
A loving child, he was her all—
The Widow’s Mite.
The Widow’s Mite—ay, so sustained,
She battled onward, nor complained,
Though friends were fewer:
And while she toiled for daily fare,
A little...
[Published in a volume by several authors for the benefit of the starving weavers of Lancashire during the American civil war.]
THE WORLD! Was jester ever in
A viler than the present?
Yet if it ugly be—as sin,
It almost is—as pleasant!
It is a merry world (pro tem.);
And some are gay, and therefore
It pleases them—but some...
Time has a magic wand!
What is this meets my hand,
Moth-eaten, mouldy, and
Covered with fluff,
Faded and stiff and scant?
Can it be? no, it can’t,—
Yes,—I declare ’t is Aunt
Prudence’s Muff!
Years ago—twenty-three!
Old Uncle Barnaby
Gave it to Aunty P.,
Laughing and teasing,—
“Pru. of...
