“This is a sorry sight,” To quote Macbeth--but oh, it grieves me quite To see your Wives and Daughters in their plumes-- White plumes not white-- Sitting at open windows catching rheums, Not “Angels ever bright and fair,” But angels ever brown and sallow, With eyes--you cannot see above one pair, For city clouds of black and yellow-- And artificial flowers, rose, leaf, and bud, Such sable lilies And grim daffodilies Drooping, but not for drought, O Lud! O Lud! I may as well, while I’m inclined, Just go through all the faults I find: O Lud! then, with a bitter air, say June, Could’st thou not find a better tune To sound with trumpets, and with drums, Than “See the Conquering Hero comes,” When he who comes ne’er dealt in blood? Thy May’r is not a War Horse, Lud, That ever charged on Turk or Tartar, And yet upon a march you strike That treats him like-- A little French if I may martyr-- Lewis Cart-Horse or Henry Carter! O Lud! I say Do change your day To some time when your Show can really show; When silk can seem like silk, and gold can glow. Look at your Sweepers, how they shine in May Have it when there’s a sun to gild the coach, And sparkle in tiara--bracelet--brooch-- Diamond--or paste--of sister, mother, daughter; When grandeur really may be grand-- But if thy Pageant’s thus obscured by land-- O Lud! it’s ten times worse upon the water! Suppose, O Lud, to show its plan, I call, like Blue Beard’s wife, to sister Anne, Who’s gone to Beaufort Wharf with niece and aunt To see what she can see--and what she can’t; Chewing a saffron bun by way of cud, To keep the fog out of a tender lung, While perch’d in a verandah nicely hung Over a margin of thy own black mud, O Lud! Now Sister Anne, I call to thee, Look out and see: Of course about the bridge you view them rally And sally,