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<h3>THE OLD SEDAN CHAIR.</h3>
<p style="font-size:.9em;"><br/><br/>BY</p>
<p style="font-size:1.1em;">AUSTIN DOBSON</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza_o">
<span class="i0">"<em>What's not destroyed by Time's devouring Hand?</em><br/></span>
<span class="i0"><em>Where's Troy, and where's the May-Pole in the Strand?</em>"<br/></span>
<span class="i32"><span class="smcap">Bramston's</span> "<span class="smcap">Art of Politicks</span>."<br/></span></div>
</div>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">It stands in the stable-yard, under the eaves,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Propped up by a broom-stick and covered with leaves:<br/></span>
<span class="i0">It once was the pride of the gay and the fair,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">But now 'tis a ruin,—that old Sedan chair!<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">It is battered and tattered,—it little avails<br/></span>
<span class="i0">That once it was lacquered, and glistened with nails;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">For its leather is cracked into lozenge and square,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Like a canvas by Wilkie,—that old Sedan chair!<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">See,—here came the bearing-straps; here were the holes<br/></span>
<span class="i0">For the poles of the bearers—when once there were poles;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">It was cushioned with silk, it was wadded with hair,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">As the birds have discovered,—that old Sedan chair!<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</SPAN></span><br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"Where's Troy?" says the poet! Look,—under the seat,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Is a nest with four eggs,—'tis the favoured retreat<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Of the Muscovy hen, who has hatched, I dare swear,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Quite an army of chicks in that old Sedan chair!<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And yet—Can't you fancy a face in the frame<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Of the window,—some high-headed damsel or dame,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Be-patched and be-powdered, just set by the stair,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">While they raise up the lid of that old Sedan chair?<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Can't you fancy Sir Plume, as beside her he stands,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">With his ruffles a-droop on his delicate hands,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">With his cinnamon coat, with his laced solitaire,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">As he lifts her out light from that old Sedan chair?<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Then it swings away slowly. Ah, many a league<br/></span>
<span class="i0">It has trotted 'twixt sturdy-legged Terence and Teague;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Stout fellows!—but prone, on a question of fare,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">To brandish the poles of that old Sedan chair!<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</SPAN></span><br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">It has waited by portals where Garrick has played;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">It has waited by Heidegger's "Grand Masquerade;"<br/></span>
<span class="i0">For my Lady Codille, for my Lady Bellair,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">It has waited—and waited, that old Sedan chair!<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Oh, the scandals it knows! Oh, the tales it could tell<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Of Drum and Ridotto, of Rake and of Belle,—<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Of Cock-fight and Levee, and (scarcely more rare!)<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Of Fête-days at Tyburn, that old Sedan chair!<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"<em>Heu! quantum mutata</em>," I say as I go.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">It deserves better fate than a stable-yard, though!<br/></span>
<span class="i0">We must furbish it up, and dispatch it,—"With Care,"—<br/></span>
<span class="i0">To a Fine-Art Museum—that old Sedan chair!<br/></span></div>
</div>
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