Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Fuess and Stearns, comps. The Little Book of Society Verse. 1922.

By. Eugene Field

Lydia Dick

WHEN I was a boy at college,

Filling up with classic knowledge,

Frequently I wondered why

Old Professor Demas Bentley

Used to praise so eloquently

“Opera Horatii.”

Toiling on a season longer

Till my reasoning powers got stronger,

As my observation grew,

I became convinced that mellow,

Massic-loving poet fellow,

Horace, knew a thing or two.

Yes, we sophomores figured duly

That, if we appraised him truly,

Horace must have been a brick;

And no wonder that with ranting

Rhymes he went a-gallivanting

Round with sprightly Lydia Dick!

For that pink of female gender

Tall and shapely was, and slender,

Plump of neck and bust and arms,

While the raiment that invested

Her so jealously suggested

Certain more potential charms.

Those dark eyes of hers that fired him,

Those sweet accents that inspired him,

And her crown of glorious hair,—

These things baffle my description:

I should have a fit conniption

If I tried; so I forbear.

Maybe Lydia had her betters;

Anyhow, this man of letters

Took that charmer as his pick.

Glad—yes, glad I am to know it!

I, a fin de siècle poet,

Sympathize with Lydia Dick!

Often in my arbor shady

I fall thinking of that lady,

And the pranks she used to play;

And I’m cheered,—for all we sages

Joy when from those distant ages

Lydia dances down our way.

Otherwise some folks might wonder,

With good reason, why in thunder

Learned professors, dry and prim,

Find such solace in the giddy

Pranks that Horace played with Liddy

Or that Liddy played with him.

Still this world of ours rejoices

In those ancient singing voices,

And our hearts beat high and quick,

To the cadence of old Tiber

Murmuring praise of roistering Liber

And of charming Lydia Dick.

Still Digentia, downward flowing,

Prattleth to the roses blowing

By the dark, deserted grot.

Still Socrate, looming lonely,

Watcheth for the coming only

Of a ghost that cometh not.