Fuess and Stearns, comps. The Little Book of Society Verse. 1922.
By. Austin DobsonTo a Child
H
So many lyres are strung;
Or how the only tone assume
That fits a Maid so young?
Suppose—’t is on the cards—
You should grow up with quite a grand
Platonic hate for bards!
For ah! with what a scorn
Your eyes must greet that luckless One
Who rhymed you, newly born,—
His idle verse to turn;
And twanged his tiresome instrument
Above your unconcern!
That, keeping Chance in view,
Whatever after fate you meet
A part may still be true.
Your sex is always fair;
Or to be writ in Fortune’s books,—
She’s rich who has to spare:
A head that’s sound and clear;
(Yet let the heart be not too blind,
The head not too severe!)
A not-too-large desire;
And—if you fail to find a Knight—
At least … a trusty Squire.