Winthrop Mackworth Praed

Of science and logic he chatters, As fine and as fast as he can; Though I am no judge of such matters, I’m sure he’s a talented man.

John Bull was beat at Waterloo! They’ll swear to that in France.

Dame Fortune is a fickle gipsy, And always blind, and often tipsy; Sometimes for years and years together, She ’ll bless you with the sunniest weather, Bestowing honour, pudding, pence, You can’t imagine why or whence;—

His partners at the whist-club said That he was faultless in his dealings.

I remember, I remember How my childhood fleeted by,— The mirth of its December And the warmth of its July.

Some lie beneath the churchyard stone, And some before the speaker.

She was our queen, our rose, our star; And then she danced—O Heaven, her dancing!

And oh! I shall find how, day by day, All thoughts and things look older; How the laugh of pleasure grows less gay, And the heart of friendship colder.