She was our queen, our rose, our star; And then she danced—O Heaven, her dancing! - Winthrop Mackworth Praed

Of science and logic he chatters,
As fine and as fast as he can;
Though I am no judge of such matters,
I’m sure he’s a talented man.

I remember, I remember
How my childhood fleeted by,—
The mirth of its December
And the warmth of its July.

Dame Fortune is a fickle gipsy,
And always blind, and often tipsy;
Sometimes for years and years together,
She ’ll bless you with the sunniest weather,
Bestowing honour, pudding, pence,
You can’t imagine why or whence;—
Then in a moment—Presto, pass!—
Your joys are withered like the grass;