by J. Ashby Sterry.
Originally published in Belgravia (John Maxwell) vol.2 #8 (Jun 1867).
Ah, sweet Annie Pearlyton, have you forgotten
That sunshiny Sunday so early in June?
When you slyly escaped from your aunt Mrs. Hotten,
And saucily said you'd come back again soon,
But must see the seal and the spotted hyena,
And doted on zoöphytes scarlet and blue—
Poor Aunt left at three, and at six we'd not seen her,
That bright summer Sunday we spent at the Zoo.
I remember you wearing the nicest of dresses,
So simple and bright, though it would not compare
With Miss Buhl's splendid train; nor could your sunny tresses
Attempt to out-rival her mass of false hair:
She'd a chaîne Benoiton, which hung from her bonnet—
'Twas gorgeous and costly, so heavy and new;
Whilst yours was of lace, with blush roses upon it,
That gay summer Sunday we spent at the Zoo.
You recollect loitering down by the water—
I mean by the pond where the pelicans dwell—
A small glove was pressed, it was six and a quarter,
A hand rather smaller was perhaps pressed as well;
You said it was nonsense, and would not believe me—
I vowed, on my honour, 'twas perfectly true—
Those lashes down-drooping could never deceive me,
That sweet summer Sunday we spent at the Zoo.
Whilst strolling around that green pond edged with rushes—
I wished we could wander for miles and for miles—
Your eyes brightly shone, whilst the loveliest blushes
Flushed cheeks dimpled o'er by the sweetest of smiles.
Then archly you said, "How about Lizzie Frampton?"
And "Who was it flirted with Alice Carew?
Who ought to be down with his 'people' at Hampton,
Instead of beguiling poor girls at the Zoo?"
How swift flew the hours as we roamed there together,
Forgetful of Aunt as she sat in the shade!
'Twas really too bad in that broiling hot weather;
And when we returned what excuses you made!
"Past six, Aunt? It can't be! You surely are joking—
We've not seen the zebra nor red kangaroo;"
Then prettily pouting, you looked so provoking,
That fine summer Sunday we spent at the Zoo.
Whilst the white chestnut blossoms like snowflakes are falling,
And already the bloom of the springtime hath flown;
That sunshiny Sunday I can't help recalling,
As I sit in dull chambers and ponder alone.
And now you are down at "The Larches," my treasure,
To find bright days long, for there's nothing to do,
Does ever come o'er you with exquisite pleasure
The thought of that Sunday we spent at the Zoo?