And such, I exclaim’d is the pitiless part, Some act by the delicate mind, Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart Already to sorrow resign’d. This Rose might have held, had I shaken it less, Its unblemish’d beauty awhile, And the tear that is wiped by a little address, May be follow’d perhaps by a smile.” ―――― MY UNIFORM. _By a Damp but Determined Volunteer._ The corps had been washed, newly-washed in a shower, Which, as usual, had spoiled our parade, The plentiful moisture, poured down for an hour, With our uniforms havoc had played. My belts were all sodden, my shako so wet, That it seemed to a fanciful view, As if mere _papier-maché_ ’twould prove, and forget For what it had duty to do. I hastily seized it, unfit as it was―― Poor shako――a shaking to stand! And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas! The peak came off, limp, in my hand! “And such,” I exclaimed, “was the Dons[68] foolish act With his helmet so neatly combined, He exposed it to thwacks, which the joints rudely cracked, Not for use but appearance designed. “This elegant cap, had I shaken it less, Might have bloomed, ’neath its _pompon_ awhile; And accoutrements wiped with a little address May adorn next Review’s rank and file!” _Punch._ July 28, 1860. (The wet summer.) ―――― APRIL: _Or, the New Hat._ My Boots had been wash’d――well wash’d――in a show’r; But little I griev’d about that: What I felt was the havoc a single half hour, Had made with my costly new Hat. For the Boot, tho’ its lustre be dimm’d, shall assume Fresh sprightliness after a while: But what art may restore its original bloom, When once it hath flown, to the Tile? I clomb to my perch, and the horses (a bay And a brown) trotted off with a clatter: The Driver look’d round in his affable way And said huskily, “Who is your hatter?” I was pleas’d that he’d notic’d its shape and its shine, And as soon as we reached the _Old Druid_, I begg’d that he’d drink to my new Four-and-nine In a glass of his favourite fluid, A gratified smile sat, I own, on my lips When the landlady called to the master (He was standing hard by with his hands on his hips), To “look at the gentleman’s Castor!” I laugh’d, as an organ-man paus’d in mid-air (’Twas an air that I happen’d to know, By a great foreign Maestro) expressly to stare At _ze gent wiz ze joli chapeau_. Yet how swift is the transit from laughter to tears! Our glories, how fleeting are they! That Hat might (with care) have adorn’d me for years; But ’twas ruin’d, alack, in a day!