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About this Poem 

From Ballads and Songs (London: Cassell and Company, 1896).


The Cane-Bottom'd Chair

  In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars,
  And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars,
  Away from the world and its toils and its cares,
  I've a snug little kingdom up four pair of stairs.

  To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure,
  But the fire there is bright and the air rather pure;
  And the view I behold on a sunshiny day
  Is grand through the chimney-pots over the way.

  This snug little chamber is cramm'd in all nooks
  With worthless old knick-knacks and silly old books,
  And foolish old odds and foolish old ends,
  Crack'd bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends.

  Old armor, prints, pictures, pipes, china, (all crack'd,)
  Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed;
  A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see;
  What matter? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me.

  No better divan need the Sultan require,
  Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire;
  And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get
  From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet.

  That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp;
  By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp;
  A mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn:
  'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon.

  Long, long through the hours, and the night, and the chimes,
  Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old times;
  As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie
  This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me.

  But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest,
  There's one that I love and I cherish the best:
  For the finest of couches that's padded with hair
  I never would change thee, my cane-bottom'd chair.

  'Tis a bandy-legg'd, high-shoulder'd, worm-eaten seat,
  With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet;
  But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there,
  I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottom'd chair.

  If chairs have but feeling, in holding such charms,
  A thrill must have pass'd through your wither'd old arms!
  I look'd, and I long'd, and I wish'd in despair;
  I wish'd myself turn'd to a cane-bottom'd chair.

  It was but a moment she sat in this place,
  She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face!
  A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair,
  And she sat there, and bloom'd in my cane-bottom'd chair.

  And so I have valued my chair ever since,
  Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince;
  Saint Fanny, my patroness sweet I declare,
  The queen of my heart and my cane-bottom'd chair.

  When the candles burn low, and the company's gone,
  In the silence of night as I sit here alone—
  I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair—
  My Fanny I see in my cane-bottom'd chair.

  She comes from the past and revisits my room;
  She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom;
  So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair,
  And yonder she sits in my cane-bottom'd chair.

This poem is in the public domain. 

This poem is in the public domain. 

William Makepeace Thackeray

William Makepeace Thackeray, born July 18, 1811, was an English writer best known for his novels, particularly The History of Henry Esmond, Esq. (The Mershon Company Publishers, 1852) and Vanity Fair (Bradbury and Evans, 1848). While in school, Thackeray began writing poems, which he published in a number of magazines, chiefly Fraser and Punch. He died on December 24, 1863.

by this poet

  Although I enter not,
  Yet round about the spot
      Ofttimes I hover:
  And near the sacred gate,
  With longing eyes I wait,
      Expectant of her.

  The Minster bell tolls out
  Above the city's rout,
      And noise and humming:
  They've hush'd the Minster bell:
  The organ 'gins to swell:

  "Coming from a gloomy court,
  Place of Israelite resort,
  This old lamp I've brought with me.
  Madam, on its panes you'll see
  The initials K and E."

  "An old lantern brought to me?
  Ugly, dingy, battered, black!"
  (Here a lady I suppose
  Turning up a pretty nose)—
  Dear Jack, this white mug that with Guinness I fill,
  And drink to the health of sweet Nan of the Hill,
  Was once Tommy Tosspot's, as jovial a sot
  As e'er drew a spigot, or drain'd a full pot—
  In drinking all round 'twas his joy to surpass,
  And with all merry tipplers he swigg'd off his glass