Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE SQUIRE OF DAMES; OR, A TOUR IN SPAIN, by ROWLAND EYLES EGERTON-WARBURTON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE SQUIRE OF DAMES; OR, A TOUR IN SPAIN, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: How happy who travels from london to cadiz
Last Line: That man highly favour'd, the squire of four ladies.
Alternate Author Name(s): Egerton-warburton, R. E.
Subject(s): Labor & Laborers; Spain; Women; Work; Workers


HOW happy who travels from London to Cadiz,
Sole protector and guide of four sight-seeking ladies!
No bachelor, selfishly taking his fling,
But with four pretty birds underneath his own wing.
He from morning till night pleasant duty must do;
He must count all their boxes, and pay for them too;
He must number his troop too, as well as their bags;
He must check the front rank when the hinder-most lags;
He the wild ones must watch lest they wander astray,
And implore them when walking to walk the same way.

He must wake them ere dawn from the depth of repose,
And have breakfast prepared ere the omnibus goes,
He must order a "plat" that each palate will please,
Or biftek, or cutlet, potatoes or pease;
He must seek the lost glove, the strapp'd mantle unroll;
He must run to recover the lost parasol.

Where'er fancy leads, he must shop them about,
And produce the small change they are always without;
His gauntlet must down on each counter be thrown,
He must wage wordy war in a language unknown;
Each purchase a matter of life or of death,
He must talk till exhausted from sheer want of breath,
Whether gloves for the fingers, or boots for the feet,
He must fight and fight on till the bargain's complete.

A retreat from the heat of the eventide sun,
The cathedral comes next when the battle is done;
Single file down the aisle, where throng'd worshippers kneel,
Till we face the High Altar, then right about wheel,
While each worshipper turns from the Virgin her eye,
To stare as the strangers in bonnets pass by.
He each shrine must unlock with a silver-wrought key—
From the touch of fair finger no relic is free—

Know each martyr whose name the side chapels assume,
And what bones are enclosed in each canopied tomb;
He must scan the whole plan with an architect's eye
From the marble-paved floor to the vaulting on high;
He must make to their female capacity clear
The date of each window, the style of each pier,
What was built by the Moor, what rebuilt by the Goth,
What has since been despoil'd by the Gaul in his wrath.

Then away to the gallery, guide-book in hand,
He must tell what to look at, and show where to stand;
In the annals of Spain be unerringly versed,
And know Philip the Second from Philip the First;
Point out with what vigour Velasquez could paint,
How sweetly Murillo could picture a saint.

'Bove all, he their zeal in due bounds must restrain;
Behold them dropp'd down from the Seville night train.
Which, think you, they stand most in need of, that group
At the Malaga station-house, slumber or soup?
Some had slept a small sleep, some had slept not at all,
Kept awake by that plague which "the fidgets" they call;

One dry roll apiece for their breakfast and lunch,
With an orange to suck at, a sausage to munch;
Their hair all dishevell'd, their hats all awry,
Four ghosts in appearance: but never say die;
All keen for the Dilly next morning at four,
En route to Grenada for twenty hours more.

He must teach them to spell "Inglaterra" aright,
He their letters must stamp when they've finished them quite,
With the dates of their progress must ne'er be perplext,
That dear sisters may know where to write to them next;
Hunt out the poste-restante, and patiently bear
Their abuse, his own fault if no letters are there.
With these and a thousand such pleasures repaid is
That man highly favour'd, the Squire of four ladies.





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