Lady Clara Vere De Vere: New Style

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,Though, 'neath the Tennysonian frown,You 've ceased to play at hearts, what needFor throwing all the graces down?The quip, the wile, the wingèd smile,Must these in truth be quite retired,Reformer of a thousand ills,O lady with a mission fired?

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,You cause a tumult in my head.I do not know how many quartsOf coal-tar every year are fedIn store-made pies, or what dread dyesGive that bright emerald to canned peas.I do not know the cure for graft,Or juvenile delinquencies;And, oh, my very soul is sickOf these and topics like to these!

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,On suffragism you 've a view.You have one on the cost of war,And what the working-girl should do.Your uplift crusade comprehendsThe stage, the mart, the funeral bier;Your dinner-table talk has grownStatistical and very drear.

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere,By yon blue heavens above us bent,The gardener Adam and his wifeYawn at your plans for betterment.We never see such sad ennuiAmong our hapless human broodAs when the ladies' motto runs:" 'T is fashionable to do good."

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Clara, Clara Vere de Vere,If time hangs heavy on your hands,Are there no suitors at your gates,No squires of dames about your lands?Go, play the game of hearts again,Coquette, and sparkle, languish, glow;Ask pardon of the folk you 've bored,And let the thousand causes go!