Winthrop Mackworth Praed (1802 – 1839)
English politician and poet.
Page 1 of 1
Some lie beneath the churchyard stone,
And some before the speaker.
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;—
Then in a moment—Presto, pass!—
Your joys are withered like the grass;
John Bull was beat at Waterloo!
They’ll swear to that in France.
I remember, I remember
How my childhood fleeted by,—
The mirth of its December
And the warmth of its July.
She was our queen, our rose, our star;
And then she danced—O Heaven, her dancing!
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.
His partners at the whist-club said
That he was faultless in his dealings.
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.
Page 1 of 1