Clinton Scollard

QUALITY HILL! It looked down on the town

With a tinge of contempt, a suspicion of frown;

And why should it not, if you’ll please to declare,

With the atmosphere such a superior air,

And the earth to be trod, any hour in the day,

Of a texture more fine than mere commonplace clay?

Quality Hill! As you clambered the slope,

With each step of ascent (to make use of a trope)

An attar pervasive, by some subtle stealth,

Began to steal out from the roses of Wealth;

And wherever you fared, you beheld on each side

A presence arrayed in the trappings of Pride.

Quality Hill! There the blood it ran blue;

There was more than one crest; there were quarterings, too.

Yet small quarter they gave to the stranger that came,

Those who bowed before Fashion, that debonair dame,

Unless the new-comer crept into the fold

Through the magical sign of the Goddess of Gold!

Quality Hill! There was satin and silk

For “my lady,” and dresses as snowy as milk;

There was poise, there was pose; there was plenty of art,

But who dare assert that beneath it was heart?

And envy and malice? But, stay! Could aught ill

(God’s grace!) have a place upon Quality Hill?

Quality Hill! Lo! it nourishes still!

And who can deny that forever it will?

A blending of breeding with puff and with plume;

A strange sort of mixture of rick and mushroom.

Some amble, some scramble, (some gamble!) to fill

The motley and medley of Quality Hill.