Fuess and Stearns, comps. The Little Book of Society Verse. 1922.
By. Austin DobsonThe Ladies of St. James’s
“Phyllida amo ante alias.”—V
T
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.
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.
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.
They’re painted to the eyes;
Their white it stays for ever,
Their red it never dies:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Her colour comes and goes;
It trembles to a lily,—
It wavers to a rose.
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.
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.
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!