THE FIRST PARTY
Follow, my Betsey-Jane, as best you can,Clutching your Mother’s fingers in firm hold,The sable progress of the serving-man,Nor stumble on your shawl’s imperial fold;Whose ceremonious pin of jade and goldBringeth such rosy awe into your faceAs the white frock, the stockings silken-soledAnd the white shoes (with pompons) which will graceThe lightness of your feet in this illumined place.Shawls being shed, descend the ample stairAnd greet our Hostess. Now you’re set to seeThe Conjurer, nor think to leave your chairFor safer eyrie of your Mother’s knee;—Still, as his tricks are tedious to ThreeAnd strange the flounce-clad children in their tiers,Turn your shy back on wiles and wizardryTo hug, for comfort’s sake, two homely bearsAnd a prepost’rous poodle, white with knitted ears.For tea, gramercie to a thoughtful choiceAnd nice derangement of the chairs, your seatFaces a fair acquaintance known as Joyce;—What glances under glossy tresses greetThe fellow-connoisseur of cake and sweetTill the last cracker’s pulled on the last plate.Now sidle through the dancers’ tortuous feetAnd come at last, for the time waxes late,Where in their cloudy breath the shadowy horses wait.Glow the two tawny lanterns on the hedge,Gleam the ungainly boughs the window blurs,And Betsey nodding on the seat’s soft edgeHolds to her heart those pompon’d shoes of hers;Till in my arms, most spent of revellers,I lift her slumb’ring whom nor lifting grievesNor sudden stay nor the cold night wind stirs,Borne up the path through fragrance of box-leaves,Up to her drowsy cot under dependent eaves.
Follow, my Betsey-Jane, as best you can,Clutching your Mother’s fingers in firm hold,The sable progress of the serving-man,Nor stumble on your shawl’s imperial fold;Whose ceremonious pin of jade and goldBringeth such rosy awe into your faceAs the white frock, the stockings silken-soledAnd the white shoes (with pompons) which will graceThe lightness of your feet in this illumined place.Shawls being shed, descend the ample stairAnd greet our Hostess. Now you’re set to seeThe Conjurer, nor think to leave your chairFor safer eyrie of your Mother’s knee;—Still, as his tricks are tedious to ThreeAnd strange the flounce-clad children in their tiers,Turn your shy back on wiles and wizardryTo hug, for comfort’s sake, two homely bearsAnd a prepost’rous poodle, white with knitted ears.For tea, gramercie to a thoughtful choiceAnd nice derangement of the chairs, your seatFaces a fair acquaintance known as Joyce;—What glances under glossy tresses greetThe fellow-connoisseur of cake and sweetTill the last cracker’s pulled on the last plate.Now sidle through the dancers’ tortuous feetAnd come at last, for the time waxes late,Where in their cloudy breath the shadowy horses wait.Glow the two tawny lanterns on the hedge,Gleam the ungainly boughs the window blurs,And Betsey nodding on the seat’s soft edgeHolds to her heart those pompon’d shoes of hers;Till in my arms, most spent of revellers,I lift her slumb’ring whom nor lifting grievesNor sudden stay nor the cold night wind stirs,Borne up the path through fragrance of box-leaves,Up to her drowsy cot under dependent eaves.
Follow, my Betsey-Jane, as best you can,Clutching your Mother’s fingers in firm hold,The sable progress of the serving-man,Nor stumble on your shawl’s imperial fold;Whose ceremonious pin of jade and goldBringeth such rosy awe into your faceAs the white frock, the stockings silken-soledAnd the white shoes (with pompons) which will graceThe lightness of your feet in this illumined place.
Shawls being shed, descend the ample stairAnd greet our Hostess. Now you’re set to seeThe Conjurer, nor think to leave your chairFor safer eyrie of your Mother’s knee;—Still, as his tricks are tedious to ThreeAnd strange the flounce-clad children in their tiers,Turn your shy back on wiles and wizardryTo hug, for comfort’s sake, two homely bearsAnd a prepost’rous poodle, white with knitted ears.
For tea, gramercie to a thoughtful choiceAnd nice derangement of the chairs, your seatFaces a fair acquaintance known as Joyce;—What glances under glossy tresses greetThe fellow-connoisseur of cake and sweetTill the last cracker’s pulled on the last plate.Now sidle through the dancers’ tortuous feetAnd come at last, for the time waxes late,Where in their cloudy breath the shadowy horses wait.
Glow the two tawny lanterns on the hedge,Gleam the ungainly boughs the window blurs,And Betsey nodding on the seat’s soft edgeHolds to her heart those pompon’d shoes of hers;Till in my arms, most spent of revellers,I lift her slumb’ring whom nor lifting grievesNor sudden stay nor the cold night wind stirs,Borne up the path through fragrance of box-leaves,Up to her drowsy cot under dependent eaves.