THE LADIES OF ST. JAMES'S

The ladies of St. James's
Go swinging to the play;
Their footmen run before them
With a "Stand by! Clear the way!"
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
She takes her buckled shoon.
When we go out a-courting
Beneath the harvest moon.

The ladies of St. James's!
They are so fine and fair,
You'd think a box of essences
Was broken in the air:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
The breath of heath and furze
When breezes blow at morning,
Is not so fresh as hers.

The ladies of St. James's!
They're painted to the eyes;
Their white it stays forever,
Their red it never dies:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Her colour comes and goes;
It trembles to a lily,--
It wavers like a rose.

The ladies of St. James's!
You scarce can understand
The half of all their speeches,
Their phrases are so grand:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Her shy and simple words
Are clear as after raindrops
The music of the birds.

The ladies of St. James's!
They have their fits and freaks;
They smile on you--for seconds;
They frown on you--for weeks:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Come either storm or shine,
From shrovetide unto shrovetide
Is always true--and mine.

_Austin Dobson._

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FOREWORD

When this romance touches history the author believes that it is, in every
respect, with one possible exception, in accord with the accepted facts.
In detailing the history of "the '45'" and the sufferings of the misguided
gentlemen who flung away the scabbard out of loyalty to a worthless cause,
care has been taken to make the story agree with history