Lucy Weatherby spread out gowns on a bed And wondered which she could wear to the next levee. The blue was faded, the rose brocade had a tear, She’d worn the flowered satin a dozen times, The apricot had never gone with her hair, And somebody had to look nice at the evening parties. But it was hard. The blockade runners of course⁠— But so few of them had space for gowns any more And, really, they charged such prices! Of course it is The war, and, of course, when one thinks of our dear, brave boys⁠— But, nevertheless, they like a girl to look fresh When they come back from their fighting. When one goes up To the winter-camps, it doesn’t matter so much, Any old rag will do for that sort of thing. But here, in Richmond⁠ ⁠… She pondered, mentally stitching, Cutting and shaping, lost in a pleasant dream.