Volume 156 — TO CHLOE, CAUGHT SPRING-CLEANING.

Now wherefore should you be dismayed And in confusion fall, Because I spied on you arrayed In cap and overall, And saw you for a moment stand Clenching a duster in your hand? The morning ardour of your face Was like a summer rose; One sooty smudge but seemed to grace The challenge of your nose; The gaudy thing that hid your hair Performed its office with an air. There is a time for stately tire, For frills and furbelows, When dainty humours should inspire Such vanities as those; So for stern hours of high intent Behoves a fit habiliment. Did not those gallants win our pride And heroes stand revealed, Who flung their fineries aside For fashions of the field? I, who have known campaigning too, Salute a kindred soul in you.