This volume packed with bric-à-brac I offer you with my affection,— The story halts, the rhymes are slack— Poor stuff to add to your collection. Gems you possess from ages back: It is the modern junk you lack. We three once moused through marble halls, Immersed in Art and deep dejection, Mid golden thrones and choir-stalls And gems beyond my recollection— Yet soft!—my memory recalls Red labels pasted on the walls! And so, perhaps, my bric-à-brac May pass the test of your inspection; Perhaps you will not send it back, But place it—if you've no objection— Under some nick-nack laden rack Where platters dangle on a tack. So if you'll take this book from me And hide it in your cupboards laden Beside some Dresden filigree And frivolously fetching maiden— Who knows?—that Dresden maid may see My book—and read it through pardie! R. W. C. 

This volume packed with bric-à-brac

I offer you with my affection,—

The story halts, the rhymes are slack—

Poor stuff to add to your collection.

Gems you possess from ages back:

It is the modern junk you lack.

We three once moused through marble halls,

Immersed in Art and deep dejection,

Mid golden thrones and choir-stalls

And gems beyond my recollection—

Yet soft!—my memory recalls

Red labels pasted on the walls!

And so, perhaps, my bric-à-brac

May pass the test of your inspection;

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