C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

The Old Sedan-Chair

“What’s not destroyed by Time’s devouring Hand?
Where’s Troy,—and where’s the May-Pole in the Strand?”
—BRAMSTON’S ‘ART OF POLITICKS.’

IT stands in the stable-yard, under the eaves,

Propped up by a broomstick and covered with leaves;

It once was the pride of the gay and the fair,

But now ’tis a ruin,—that old Sedan-chair!

It is battered and tattered,—it little avails

That once it was lacquered, and glistened with nails;

For its leather is cracked into lozenge and square

Like a canvas by Wilkie,—that old Sedan-chair.

See, here come the bearing-straps; here were the holes

For the poles of the bearers—when once there were poles;

It was cushioned with silk, it was wadded with hair,

As the birds have discovered,—that old Sedan-chair.

“Where’s Troy?” says the poet! Look; under the seat

Is a nest with four eggs; ’tis a favored retreat

Of the Muscovy hen, who has hatched, I dare swear,

Quite an army of chicks in that old Sedan-chair.

And yet—Can’t you fancy a face in the frame

Of the window,—some high-headed damsel or dame,

Be-patched and be-powdered, just set by the stair,

While they raise up the lid of that old Sedan-chair?

Can’t you fancy Sir Plume, as beside her he stands,

With his ruffles a-droop on his delicate hands,

With his cinnamon coat, with his laced solitaire,

As he lifts her out light from that old Sedan-chair?

Then it swings away slowly. Ah, many a league

It has trotted ’twixt sturdy-legged Terence and Teague;

Stout fellows!—but prone, on a question of fare,

To brandish the poles of that old Sedan-chair!

It has waited by portals where Garrick has played;

It has waited by Heidegger’s “Grand Masquerade”;

For my Lady Codille, for my Lady Bellair,

It has waited—and waited, that old Sedan-chair!

Oh, the scandals it knows! Oh, the tales it could tell

Of Drum and Ridotto, of Rake and of Belle,—

Of Cock-fight and Levee, and (scarcely more rare!)

Of Fête-days at Tyburn, that old Sedan-chair!

“Heu! quantum mutata,” I say as I go.

It deserves better fate than a stable-yard, though!

We must furbish it up, and dispatch it,—“With Care,”—

To a Fine-Art Museum—that old Sedan-chair.