THE BELGIAN PINAFORE
’Twas bought in Bruges, the shop was poor,One read “Au Bébé” flourished o’erThe ancient lintel; to that doorNo English guineaHad ever come nor travelled goldGladdened her gaze, that woman old,Who tottered from the gloom and soldThe Belgian “pinny.”I mind me choosing in the placeA cap with frills of little lace;“That too,” I said, “shall come to graceMy Small and Sweet.”Prim in her pinafore arrayedI pictured Betsey while I strayedWhere, all the time, the proud bells playedAbove the street.Now, Betsey, on the roguish backThat stalks around the sunny stackThe turkey’s truculence or the trackOf stable catsThe Belgian “pinny” flaunts its hue,Still the same stripe of white and blueAs when ’twas dyed, no doubt for you,In Flemish vats.Still of its old lost life it tellsAnd alien provenance, there are spellsAnd glamour of the Town of BellsAbout it shed;And when my Belgian Betsey climbsMy knee I’ve heard a hundred timesThe clash and ripple of the chimesAround her head.As though the child herself did playWithout some white estaminetShuttered and silent where, all dayIn sun and shower,Two little lions with stone grinsHold ’scutcheons under paws and chinsAnd their divine appellant dinsThe honoured hour.
’Twas bought in Bruges, the shop was poor,One read “Au Bébé” flourished o’erThe ancient lintel; to that doorNo English guineaHad ever come nor travelled goldGladdened her gaze, that woman old,Who tottered from the gloom and soldThe Belgian “pinny.”I mind me choosing in the placeA cap with frills of little lace;“That too,” I said, “shall come to graceMy Small and Sweet.”Prim in her pinafore arrayedI pictured Betsey while I strayedWhere, all the time, the proud bells playedAbove the street.Now, Betsey, on the roguish backThat stalks around the sunny stackThe turkey’s truculence or the trackOf stable catsThe Belgian “pinny” flaunts its hue,Still the same stripe of white and blueAs when ’twas dyed, no doubt for you,In Flemish vats.Still of its old lost life it tellsAnd alien provenance, there are spellsAnd glamour of the Town of BellsAbout it shed;And when my Belgian Betsey climbsMy knee I’ve heard a hundred timesThe clash and ripple of the chimesAround her head.As though the child herself did playWithout some white estaminetShuttered and silent where, all dayIn sun and shower,Two little lions with stone grinsHold ’scutcheons under paws and chinsAnd their divine appellant dinsThe honoured hour.
’Twas bought in Bruges, the shop was poor,One read “Au Bébé” flourished o’erThe ancient lintel; to that doorNo English guineaHad ever come nor travelled goldGladdened her gaze, that woman old,Who tottered from the gloom and soldThe Belgian “pinny.”
I mind me choosing in the placeA cap with frills of little lace;“That too,” I said, “shall come to graceMy Small and Sweet.”Prim in her pinafore arrayedI pictured Betsey while I strayedWhere, all the time, the proud bells playedAbove the street.
Now, Betsey, on the roguish backThat stalks around the sunny stackThe turkey’s truculence or the trackOf stable catsThe Belgian “pinny” flaunts its hue,Still the same stripe of white and blueAs when ’twas dyed, no doubt for you,In Flemish vats.
Still of its old lost life it tellsAnd alien provenance, there are spellsAnd glamour of the Town of BellsAbout it shed;And when my Belgian Betsey climbsMy knee I’ve heard a hundred timesThe clash and ripple of the chimesAround her head.
As though the child herself did playWithout some white estaminetShuttered and silent where, all dayIn sun and shower,Two little lions with stone grinsHold ’scutcheons under paws and chinsAnd their divine appellant dinsThe honoured hour.