  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 gold Bringeth such rosy awe into your face As the white frock, the stockings silken-soled And the white shoes (with pompons) which will grace The lightness of your feet in this illumined place. Shawls being shed, descend the ample stair And greet our Hostess. Now you’re set to see The Conjurer, nor think to leave your chair For safer eyrie of your Mother’s knee;— Still, as his tricks are tedious to Three And strange the flounce-clad children in their tiers, Turn your shy back on wiles and wizardry To hug, for comfort’s sake, two homely bears And a prepost’rous poodle, white with knitted ears. For tea, gramercie to a thoughtful choice And nice derangement of the chairs, your seat Faces a fair acquaintance known as Joyce;— What glances under glossy tresses greet The fellow-connoisseur of cake and sweet Till the last cracker’s pulled on the last plate. Glow the two tawny lanterns on the hedge, Gleam the ungainly boughs the window blurs, And Betsey nodding on the seat’s soft edge Holds 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 grieves Nor 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. |
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