IT lay upon a pillow white, The framework of a beauteous sight Wherein its mistress laid a bright Ecstatic face, And when each night it proudly bore Her wavy wealth of "cheveux d'or" It seemed a very Heaven for The bit of lace. But lace can from a pillow part And by a touch of cunning art Adorn the casket of the heart, Where every grace, Half hidden by its witching fold, Seeks to betray a charm untold -- How envies each admirer bold The bit of lace! Still maidens' mind and garments change, And so there comes a new exchange; The real Valenciennes finds a strange New resting-place, Where tiny feet and ankles hide, And where but for a shoe untied No human eye had e'er espied The bit of lace. A crowded street, a sudden scare, A little rush, a lengthy tear, A snowy skirt that needs repair, Decides the case. And what each morn her footman missed Hung from a dainty, dimpled wrist, And ardent lovers fondly kissed The bit of lace. . . . . . . . . . This tale is incomplete, I know, But where else could the traveller go? Ah, it was fifty years ago All this took place. And nodding, in her noonday nap, Secure from every sad mishap, I see in Grandma's dainty cap The bit of lace. |