1831 .J [ 303 ] 



ODE TO A MATRON PENSIONER : 

 BY A PERSON OP QUALITY. 



LOVED by my father and me, 

 Perhaps by my grandfather too ; 



From eighteen to eighty and three 

 A beauty, a belle, and a blue. 



Dear mother of mothers, farewell, 

 Even rapture grows irksome to thee ; 



The heart, wayward thing, will rebel, 

 Though thou art but eighty and three. 



Did I love ? May I ne'er be forgiven 



My cargo of frailties and fears ; 

 May my spirit in anguish be riven ; 



May I hear a debate in the Peers ! 



May I sit out my Lord Durham's speech, 

 May I writhe upon Wellington's wit ; 



May I hear my Lord Tolderol preach, 

 Or Lord Bathurst " remind us" of Pitt. 



May I do all impossible things ; 



May I make dandy Devonshire smile, 

 Or reckon Brocard's diamond rings, 



Or of wit my Lord Nugent beguile ! 



But I loved you; with rapture how bright, 

 Strong, yet soft, like the curls of your hair; 



But my sunshine is all turned to night, 

 And my rapture is fled Heaven knows where ! 



When I drive through the streets in my cab, 

 I let all the world pass me by ; 



1 look, as if caught by Queen Mab, 

 With a dream on my heart, or my eye. 



Recollections of tenderness gone, 



Of raptures no more to return, 

 Of beauty as cold as a stone, 



Of sighs that no longer will burn ; 



Of calls twice a day at your door, 

 Of smiles when I made my way in ; 



Of billet-doux sent by the score, 

 Of presents of " best Marasquin." 



Of purses unstrung at your beck, 

 Of diamonds from Levi's and Green's, 



Till my banker grew pale at my check, 

 And a blank were " my ways and my means." 



'Twas one evening, the sun gave a gleam, 

 That threw every wrinkle in light; 



On thy cheek shewed the rouge and cold cream, 

 And traced through thy locks all the white. 



