RONDEAU.
[EXTRACTED FROM A WELL-KNOWN ANNUAL.]
O CURIOUS reader, didst thou ne’er
Behold a worshipful Lord May’r
Seated in his great civic chair
So dear?
Then cast thy longing eyes this way,
It is the ninth November day,
And in his new-born state survey
One here!
To rise from little into great
Is pleasant; but to sink in state
From high to lowly is a fate
Severe.
Too soon his shine is overcast,
Chill’d by the next November blast;
His blushing honours only last
One year!
He casts his fur and sheds his chains,
And moults till not a plume remains—
The next impending May’r distrains
His gear.
He slips like water through a sieve—
Ah, could his little splendour live
Another twelvemonth—he would give
One ear!