A Curate's Complaint.

    Where are they all departed,
        The loved ones of my youth,
    Those emblems white of purity,
        Sweet innocence and truth?
    When day-light drives the darkness,
        When evening melts to night,
    When noon-day suns burn brightest,
        They come not to my sight.

    I miss their pure embraces
        Around my neck and throat,
    The thousand winning graces
        Whereon I used to dote.
    I know I may find markets
        Where love is bought and sold,
    But no such love can equal
        The tender ties of old.

    My gentle washer-woman,
        I know that you are true;
    The least shade of suspicion
        Can never fall on you.
    Then fear me not, as fiercely
        I fix on thee stern eyes,
    And ask in terms emphatic,
        "Where are my lost white ties?"

    Each year I buy a dozen,
        Yet scarce a year is gone,
    Ere, looking in my ward-robe,
        I find that I have none.
    I don't believe in magic,
        I know that you are true,
    Yet say, my washer-woman,
        What can those white ties do?

    Does each with her own collar
        To regions far elope,
    Regions by starch untainted,
        And innocent of soap?
    I know not; but in future
        I'll buy no more white ties,
    But wear the stiff 'all-rounder'
        Of Ritualistic guise.