Classic Poem

S T . J AMES'S Street , of classic fame,
— For Fashion still is seen there:
St. James's Street? I know the name,
— I almost think I've been there!
Why, that's where Sacharissa sighed
— When Waller read his ditty;
Where Byron lived, and Gibbon died,
— And Alvanley was witty.

A famous Street! To yonder Park
— Young Churchill stole in class-time;
Come, gaze on fifty men of mark,
— And then recall the past time.
The plats at White's, the play at Crock's,
— The bumpers to Miss Gunning;
The bonhomie of Charley Fox,
— And Selwyn's ghastly funning.

The dear old Street of clubs and cribs,
— As north and south it stretches,
Still seems to smack of Rolliad squibs,
— And Gillray's fiercer sketches;
The quaint old dress, the grand old style,
— The mots , the racy stories;
The wine, the dice, the wit, the bile —
— The hate of Whigs and Tories.

At dusk, when I am strolling there,
— Dim forms will rise around me;
Lepel flits past me in her chair,
— And Congreve's airs astound me!
And once Nell Gwynne, a frail young Sprite
— Looked kindly when I met her;
I shook my head, perhaps, — but quite
— Forgot to quite forget her.

The Street is still a lively tomb
— For rich, and gay, and clever;
The crops of dandies bud and bloom,
— And die as fast as ever.
Now gilded youth loves cutty pipes,
— And slang that's rather scaring;
It can't approach its prototypes
— In taste, or tone, or bearing.

In Brummell's day of buckle shoes,
— Lawn cravats, and roll collars,
They'd fight, and woo, and bet — and lose,
— Like gentlemen and scholars:
I'm glad young men should go the pace,
— I half forgive Old Rapid!
These louts disgrace their name and race —
— So vicious and so vapid!

Worse times may come. Bon ton , indeed,
— Will then be quite forgotten,
And all we much revere will speed
— From ripe to worse than rotten:
Let grass then sprout between yon stones,
— And owls then roost at Boodle's,
For Echo will hurl back the tones
— Of screaming Yankee Doodles.

I love the haunts of old Cockaigne,
— Where wit and wealth were squandered;
The halls that tell of hoop and train,
— Where grace and rank have wandered;
Those halls where ladies fair and leal
— First ventured to adore me!
Something of that old love I feel
— For this old Street before me.