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About this Poem 

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

 

A Doe in the City

  Little KITTY LORIMER,
    Fair, and young, and witty,
  What has brought your ladyship
    Rambling to the City?

  All the Stags in Capel Court
    Saw her lightly trip it;
  All the lads of Stock Exchange
    Twigg'd her muff and tippet.

  With a sweet perplexity,
    And a mystery pretty,
  Threading through Threadneedle Street,
    Trots the little KITTY.

  What was my astonishment—
    What was my compunction,
  When she reached the Offices
    Of the Didland Junction!

  Up the Didland stairs she went,
    To the Didland door, Sir;
  Porters lost in wonderment,
    Let her pass before, Sir.

  "Madam," says the old chief Clerk,
    "Sure we can't admit ye."
  "Where's the Didland Junction deed?"
   Dauntlessly says KITTY.

  "If you doubt my honesty,
    Look at my receipt, Sir."
  Up then jumps the old chief Clerk,
    Smiling as he meets her.

  KITTY at the table sits
    (Whither the old Clerk leads her),
  "I deliver this," she says,
    "As my act and deed, Sir."

  When I heard these funny words
    Come from lips so pretty;
  This, I thought, should surely be
    Subject for a ditty.

  What! are ladies stagging it?
    Sure, the more's the pity;
  But I've lost my heart to her,—
    Naughty little KITTY.

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.

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  Descind from your station and make observation
    Of the Prince's pavilion in sweet Pimlico.

  This garden, by jakurs, is forty poor acres,
    (The garner he tould me, and sure ought to know;)
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  Now the toils of day are over,
    And the sun hath sunk to rest,
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    The bosom of the blushing west—

  The faithful night keeps watch and ward,
    Raising the moon her silver shield,
  And summoning the stars to guard
    The slumbers of my fair Mathilde!

  The faithful
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  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;
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