Complete Poetical Works






THE TALE OF A PONY

     Name of my heroine, simply "Rose;"
     Surname, tolerable only in prose;
     Habitat, Paris,—that is where
     She resided for change of air;
     Aetat twenty; complexion fair;
     Rich, good looking, and debonnaire;
     Smarter than Jersey lightning.  There!
     That's her photograph, done with care.

     In Paris, whatever they do besides,
     EVERY LADY IN FULL DRESS RIDES!
     Moire antiques you never meet
     Sweeping the filth of a dirty street
     But every woman's claim to ton
         Depends upon
     The team she drives, whether phaeton,
     Landau, or britzka.  Hence it's plain
     That Rose, who was of her toilet vain,
     Should have a team that ought to be
     Equal to any in all Paris!

     "Bring forth the horse!"  The commissaire
     Bowed, and brought Miss Rose a pair
     Leading an equipage rich and rare.
     Why doth that lovely lady stare?
     Why?  The tail of the off gray mare
     Is bobbed, by all that's good and fair!
     Like the shaving-brushes that soldiers wear,
     Scarcely showing as much back hair
     As Tam O'Shanter's "Meg,"—and there,
     Lord knows, she'd little enough to spare.

     That stare and frown the Frenchman knew,
     But did as well-bred Frenchmen do:
     Raised his shoulders above his crown,
     Joined his thumbs with the fingers down,
     And said, "Ah, Heaven!"—then, "Mademoiselle,
     Delay one minute, and all is well!"
     He went—returned; by what good chance
     These things are managed so well in France
     I cannot say, but he made the sale,
     And the bob-tailed mare had a flowing tail.

     All that is false in this world below
     Betrays itself in a love of show;
     Indignant Nature hides her lash
     In the purple-black of a dyed mustache;
     The shallowest fop will trip in French,
     The would-be critic will misquote Trench;
     In short, you're always sure to detect
     A sham in the things folks most affect;
     Bean-pods are noisiest when dry,
     And you always wink with your weakest eye:
     And that's the reason the old gray mare
     Forever had her tail in the air,
     With flourishes beyond compare,
         Though every whisk
         Incurred the risk
     Of leaving that sensitive region bare.
     She did some things that you couldn't but feel
     She wouldn't have done had her tail been real.

     Champs Elysees: time, past five.
     There go the carriages,—look alive!
     Everything that man can drive,
     Or his inventive skill contrive,—
     Yankee buggy or English "chay,"
     Dog-cart, droschky, and smart coupe,
     A desobligeante quite bulky
     (French idea of a Yankee sulky);
     Band in the distance playing a march,
     Footman standing stiff as starch;
     Savans, lorettes, deputies, Arch-
     Bishops, and there together range
     Sous-lieutenants and cent-gardes (strange
     Way these soldier-chaps make change),
     Mixed with black-eyed Polish dames,
     With unpronounceable awful names;
     Laces tremble and ribbons flout,
     Coachmen wrangle and gendarmes shout—
     Bless us! what is the row about?
     Ah! here comes Rosy's new turnout!
     Smart!  You bet your life 'twas that!
     Nifty! (short for magnificat).
     Mulberry panels,—heraldic spread,—
     Ebony wheels picked out with red,
     And two gray mares that were thoroughbred:
     No wonder that every dandy's head
     Was turned by the turnout,—and 'twas said
     That Caskowhisky (friend of the Czar),
     A very good whip (as Russians are),
     Was tied to Rosy's triumphal car,
     Entranced, the reader will understand,
     By "ribbons" that graced her head and hand.

     Alas! the hour you think would crown
     Your highest wishes should let you down!
     Or Fate should turn, by your own mischance,
     Your victor's car to an ambulance,
     From cloudless heavens her lightnings glance!
     (And these things happen, even in France.)
     And so Miss Rose, as she trotted by,
     The cynosure of every eye,
     Saw to her horror the off mare shy,
     Flourish her tail so exceedingly high
     That, disregarding the closest tie,
     And without giving a reason why,
     She flung that tail so free and frisky
     Off in the face of Caskowhisky.

       Excuses, blushes, smiles: in fine,
       End of the pony's tail, and mine!

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