Old John MacBride, one fatal day, Became the unresisting prey Of fortune's undertakers; And staking all on a single die, His foundered bark went high and dry Among the brokers and breakers!
But, alas, for the haughty Miss MacBride, 'T was such a shock to her precious pride! She couldn't recover, although she tried Her jaded spirits to rally; 'T was a dreadful change in human affairs, From a place "up town" to a nook "up stairs," From an avenue down to an alley!
'T was little condolence she had, God wot, From her "troops of friends," who hadn't forgot The airs she used to borrow! They had civil phrases enough, but yet 'T was plain to see that their "deepest regret" Was a different thing from sorrow!
And one of those chaps who make a pun, As if it were quite legitimate fun To be blazing away at every one With a regular, double-loaded gun-- Remarked that moral transgression Always brings retributive stings To candle-makers as well as kings; For "making light of _cereous_ things" Was a very _wick_-ed profession!
And vulgar people--the saucy churls-- Inquired about "the price of pearls," And mocked at her situation: "She wasn't ruined--they ventured to hope-- Because she was poor, she needn't mope; Few people were better off for _soap_, And that was a consolation!"
And to make her cup of woe run over, Her elegant, ardent plighted lover Was the very first to forsake her; "He quite regretted the step, 't was true-- The lady had pride enough 'for two,' But that alone would never do To quiet the butcher and baker!"
And now the unhappy Miss MacBride-- The merest ghost of her early pride-- Bewails her lonely position; Cramped in the very narrowest niche, Above the poor, and below the rich-- Was ever a worse condition!
Because you flourish in worldly affairs, Don't be haughty, and put on airs, With insolent pride of station! Don't be proud, and turn up your nose At poorer people in plainer clothes, But learn, for the sake of your mind's repose, That wealth 's a bubble that comes--and goes! And that all proud flesh, wherever it grows, Is subject to irritation!
Time has a magic wand! What is this meets my hand, Moth-eaten, mouldy, and Covered with fluff, Faded and stiff and scant? Can it be? no, it can't,-- Yes,--I declare 't is Aunt Prudence's Muff!