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 As she sits, her reverie
Has a charm; Her ringlets are in taste,— What an arm! and what a waist For an arm!
In bridal coronet, Lace, ribbons, and coquette Falbala; Were Romney's limning true,
What a lucky dog were you, Grandpapa! Her lips are sweet as love,— They are parting! Do they move?
Are they dumb?— Her eyes are blue, and beam Beseechingly, and seem To say, “Come.”
What funny fancy slips From atween these cherry lips? Whisper me, Sweet deity, in paint,
What canon says I may n't Marry thee? That good-for-nothing Time Has a confidence sublime!
When I first Saw this lady, in my youth, Her winters had, forsooth, Done their worst.
Her locks ( as white as snow ) Once shamed the swarthy crow. By-and-by, That fowl's avenging sprite,
Set his cloven foot for spite In her eye. Her rounded form was lean, And her silk was bombazine:—
Well I wot, With her needles would she sit, And for hours would she knit,— Would she not?
Ah, perishable clay! Her charms had dropt away One by one. But if she heaved a sigh
With a burthen, it was, “Thy Will be done.” In travail, as in tears, With the fardel of her years
Overprest,— In mercy was she borne Where the weary ones and worn Are at rest.
I'm fain to meet you there,— If as witching as you were, Grandmamma! This nether world agrees
That the better it must please Grandpapa.
Cookies on Poetry Cove