When I was once a little lasse
At Stratford-on-the-Bowe
I hastened daily to my classe,
My one dream was to know.
I studied there, full seemly deep,
With ne'er the smallest hint
That other maids would some day weep,
At seeing me in print.

I thought of nothing but my booke,
To make my mind grow fair
So I'm afraid I never took
The pains to do my hair!

(_She looks at the_ JUNIOR'S _hair_.)

Perchance if now I went to school,
And sought its culture wide,
Of _coiffures_ strange I'd learn the rule,
And scorn what was inside.

Oh, gentle Chaucer, could you see
The world around us here,
Perhaps you'd change your poetry
And call no pilgrim _queer_
And could you see the ladies' dress,
And what they wear the while,
You'd know what made the critics guess
You had a _simple style_.