Poetry from the papers
From time to time, readers of the local papers wrote poems which they sent to the Editor for publication.
Times, February 19, 1868
THERE IS A YOUNG LADY OF RYDE
She yawns all through the dreary night,
She yawns till scarce her jaws will meet,
She cannot look at ribbons bright,
In any shop in Union Street.
And since “Old Fogey’s” answer came,
She has forgot to cress her hair,
She knows no longer what to wear,
She only knows that life is tame.
“No Fancy Ball” she made her moan,
“No Fancy Ball” both night and morn;
“And all,” she sang, “to wish alone,
Wish for a Ball, and meet with scorn!”
With few slow steps the long Ryde pier,
Is trodden through each lengthening day.
And the dull folk who there appear,
Just stare without a word to say.
Ryde’s Yacht Club looks both sad and strange,
Unlighted is the ball-room there,
Empty each sofa and each chair,
Deserted without hope of change.
“Alas!” she said, the days are dreary,
There is no Ball”, she said,
“Oh dear, I am a-weary, weary,
Poor Ryde is very dead.”
Then as her carol sadder grew,
From comb and frisette slowly down,
With cold and trembling hands she drew
Her last bought curls, her chignon brown;
And if they had not been so dear,
She would have torn them, where they grew,
As heroines in poems do –
While from her eyes there fell a tear.
“Is this the form,” she made her moan,
That won such praises at the Ball?
“Dear heart, I fear its charms are flown,
That no one hears me when I call.”
Sometimes the “noisy boys” drop in,
“We’ve got our leave,” they come to say,
“To our Theatricals drop in,
Perchance they’ll while some hours away.”
“They may for some,” she said and sighed,
But others’ triumphs are a bore;
Oh! For a Fancy Ball!” she cried.
“Oh cruel Club!” she changed her tone,
“Oh Fogies, bitter and hard as gall!
Is this the end, to be left alone,
A year, and still no Fancy Ball?”