THE POPLAR.
Ay, here stands the Poplar, so tall and so stately,On whose tender rind—'twas a little one then—We carvedherinitials; though not very lately—We think in the year eighteen hundred and ten.Yes, here is the G which proclaimed Georgiana;Our heart's empress then; see, 'tis grown all askew;And it's not without grief we perforce entertain aConviction, it now looks much more like a Q.This should be the great D too, that once stood for Dobbin,Her lov'd patronymic—ah! can it be so?Its once fair proportions, time too has been robbing;A D?—we'll beDeedif it isn't an O!Alas! how the soul sentimental it vexes,That thus on our labours sternChronosshould frown;Should change our soft liquids to izzards and X es,And turn true-love's alphabet all upside down!
Ay, here stands the Poplar, so tall and so stately,On whose tender rind—'twas a little one then—We carvedherinitials; though not very lately—We think in the year eighteen hundred and ten.Yes, here is the G which proclaimed Georgiana;Our heart's empress then; see, 'tis grown all askew;And it's not without grief we perforce entertain aConviction, it now looks much more like a Q.This should be the great D too, that once stood for Dobbin,Her lov'd patronymic—ah! can it be so?Its once fair proportions, time too has been robbing;A D?—we'll beDeedif it isn't an O!Alas! how the soul sentimental it vexes,That thus on our labours sternChronosshould frown;Should change our soft liquids to izzards and X es,And turn true-love's alphabet all upside down!
Ay, here stands the Poplar, so tall and so stately,On whose tender rind—'twas a little one then—We carvedherinitials; though not very lately—We think in the year eighteen hundred and ten.
Yes, here is the G which proclaimed Georgiana;Our heart's empress then; see, 'tis grown all askew;And it's not without grief we perforce entertain aConviction, it now looks much more like a Q.
This should be the great D too, that once stood for Dobbin,Her lov'd patronymic—ah! can it be so?Its once fair proportions, time too has been robbing;A D?—we'll beDeedif it isn't an O!
Alas! how the soul sentimental it vexes,That thus on our labours sternChronosshould frown;Should change our soft liquids to izzards and X es,And turn true-love's alphabet all upside down!