A CHAPTER OF FROISSART by HENRY AUSTIN DOBSON

(GRANDPAPA LOQUITUR)

YOU don't know Froissart now, young folks,
This age, I think, prefers recitals
Of high-spiced crime, with 'slang' for jokes,
And startling titles;

But, in my time, when still some few
Loved 'old Montaigne,' and praised Pope's Homer
(Nay, thought to style him 'poet' too,
Were scarce misnomer),

Sir John was less ignored. Indeed,
I can recall how Some-one present
(Who spoils her grandson, Frank!) would read,
And find him pleasant;

For, -- by this copy, -- hangs a Tale.
Long since, in an old house in Surrey,
Where men knew more of 'morning ale'
Than 'Lindley Murray,'

In a dim-lighted, whip-hung hall,
'Neath Hogarth's 'Midnight Conversation,'
It stood; and oft 'twixt spring and fall,
With fond elation,

I turned the brown old leaves. For there
All through one hopeful happy summer,
At such a page (I well knew where),
Some secret comer,

Whom I can picture, 'Trix, like you
(Though scarcely such a colt unbroken),
Would sometimes place for private view
A certain token; --

A rose-leaf, meaning 'Garden Wall,'
An ivy-leaf for 'Orchard corner,'
A thorn to say 'Don't come at all,' --
Unwelcome warner! --

Not that, in truth, our friends gainsaid;
But then Romance required dissembling,
(Ann Radcliffe taught us that!) which bred
Some genuine trembling;

Though, as a rule, all used to end
In such kind confidential parely
As may to you kind Fortune send,
You long-legged Charlie,

When your time comes. How years slip on!
We had our crosses like our betters;
Fate sometimes looked askance upon
Those floral letters;

And once, for three long days disdained,
The dust upon the folio settled;
For some-one, in the right, was pained,
And some one nettled,

That sure was in the wrong, but spake
Of fixed intent and purpose stony
To serve King George, enlist and make
Minced-meat of 'Boney,'

Who yet survived -- ten years at least.
And so, when she I mean came hither,
One day that need for letters ceased,
She brought this with her!

Here is the leaf-stained Chapter: -- How
The English King laid siege to Calais;
I think Gran. knows it even now, --
Go ask her, Alice.

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