This is a fan for my mother
Shall I then descant on its use
In manner diffuse.
Maunder of passion and sighs
And the light of your luminous eyes
I am a novice these jobs on
They are the stroke of A Dobson.
No 'tis a chaperone's fan
Dreaded by Man—
Signalling over the room
The signal of doom—
When the hours of the night have grown small
At the end of a ball
And Trixie the wilful demurs
At the hookum for carriage and furs—
Wherefore your offspring would urge
Use it dear mum for a scourge.