Under the elm a rustic seat
This Relative of mine
Beneath a summer tree
With her bridal-wreath, bouquet,
Her lips are sweet as love;
What funny fancy slips
That good-for-nothing Time
Her locks, as white as snow,
Her rounded form was lean,
Ah perishable clay!
In travail, as in tears,
Oh if you now are there,
Was merriest Susan's pet retreat
To merry-make.
Was she seventy-and-nine
When she died?
By the canvas may be seen
How she look'd at seventeen,
As a Bride.
Her maiden reverie
Has a charm;
Her ringlets are in taste;
What an arm! and what a waist
For an arm!
Lace farthingale, and gay
Falbala,--
If Romney's touch be true,
What a lucky dog were you,
Grandpapa!
They are parting! Do they move?
Are they dumb?
Her eyes are blue, and beam
Beseechingly, and seem
To say, "Come!"
From atween these cherry lips?
Whisper me,
Fair Sorceress in paint,
What canon says I mayn't
Marry thee!
Has a confidence sublime!
When I first
Saw this Lady, in my youth,
Her winters had, forsooth,
Done their worst.
Once shamed the swarthy crow;
By-and-by
That fowl's avenging sprite
Set his cruel foot for spite
Near her eye.
And her silk was bombazine:
Well I wot
With her needles would she sit,
And for hours would she knit, --
Would she not?
Her charms had dropt away
One by one:
But if she heaved a sigh
With a burthen, it was, "Thy
Will be done."
With the fardel of her years
Overprest,
In mercy she was borne
Where the weary and the worn
Are at rest.
And sweet as once you were,
Grandmamma,
This nether world agrees
You'll all the better please
Grandpapa.