"WHY DON'T THE MEN PROPOSE?"
CHY don't the men propose, mamma?
Why don't the men propose?
Each seems just coming to the point,
And then away he goes!
It is no fault of yours, mamma,
That everybody knows;
You fête the finest men in town,
Yet, oh, they won't propose!
I'm sure I've done my best, mamma,
To make a proper match;
For coronets and eldest sons
I'm ever on the watch:
I've hopes when some distingué beau
A glance upon me throws;
But though he'll dance, and smile, and flirt,
Alas, he won't propose !
I've tried to win by languishing,
And dressing like a blue;
I've bought big books, and talk'd of them,
As if I'd read them through!
With hair cropp'd like a man, I've felt
The heads of all the beaux;
But Spurzheim could not touch their hearts,
And oh, they won't propose!
I threw aside the books, and thought
That ignorance was bliss;
I felt convinced that men preferr'd
A simple sort of Miss;
And so I lisp'd out naught beyond
Plain "
yeses or plain "noes,'
And wore a sweet unmeaning smile;
Yet, oh, they won't propose!
Last night, at Lady Ramble's rout,
I heard Sir Harry Gale
Exclaim, "Now, I propose again
I started, turning pale;
I really thought my time was come,
I blush'd like any rose;
But, oh! I found 'twas only at
Ecarté he'd propose !
And what is to be done, mamma?
Oh, what is to be done?
I really have no time to lose,
For I am thirty-one :
At balls, I am too often left
Where spinsters sit in rows;
Why won't the men propose, mamma?
Why won't the men propose?
THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.
'DON'T TALK OF SEPTEMBER."
ON'T talk of September! A lady Must think it of all months the worst;
The men are preparing already
To take themselves off on the First.
I try to arrange a small party,
The girls dance together; how tame!
I'd get up my game of écarté,
But they go to bring down their game!
Last month, their attention to quicken,
A supper I knew was the thing;
now, from my turkey and chicken
They're tempted by birds on the wing!
They shoulder their terrible rifles,
(It's really too much for my nerves!)
And slighting my sweets and my trifles,
Prefer my Lord Harry's preserves!
Miss Lovemore, with great consternation,
Now hears of the horrible plan,
And fears that her little flirtation
Was only a flash in the pan!
Oh, marriage is hard of digestion,
The men are all sparing of words;
And now, 'stead of popping the question,
They set off to pop at the birds.
Go, false ones, your aim is so horrid,
That love at the sight of you dies;
You care not for locks on the forehead,
The locks made by Manton you prize!
All thoughts sentimental exploding,
Like flints I behold you depart;
You heed not, when priming and loading,
The load you have left on my heart!
They talk about patent percussions,
And all preparations for sport;
And those double-barrel discussions
Exhaust double bottles of port!
The dearest is deaf to my summons,
As off on his pony he jogs;
A doleful condition is woman's;
The men are all gone to the dogs.
THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.
"THE MEN ARE ALL CLUBBING
HE men are all clubbing together,
Abandoning gentle pursuits;
They revel with birds of a feather,
And dine in black neckcloths and
boots :
They've no party spirit about them, (My parties are stupid concerns), The ladies sit sulky without them,
Or dance with each other by turns.
Oh, where are the Dandies who flirted,
Who came of a morning to call?
We females are so disconcerted,
I'd fee males to come to my ball!
'Twas flattery charm'd us,—no matter-
Paste often may pass for a gem ;
Alas! we are duller and flatter
Than when we were flatter'd by them.
When family dinners we're giving,
They send an excuse,-there's the rub;
Each gourmand, secure of good living,
Like Hercules, leans on his Club.
A hermit, though beauty invites him,
Alone at the Union he sits,
But what is the Fare that delights him,
Compar'd with the Fair that he quits?
THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.
HEN some mad bard sits down to muse
About the lilies and the dews,
The grassy vales and sloping lawns,
Fairies and Satyrs, Nymphs and Fawns,
He's apt to think, he's apt to swear,
That Cupid reigns not anywhere
Except in some sequestered village
Where peasants live on truth and tillage,
That none are fair enough for witches
But maids who frisk through dells and ditches,
That dreams are twice as sweet as dances,
That cities never breed romances,
That Beauty always keeps a cottage,
And Purity grows pale on pottage.
Yes those dear dreams are all divine;
And those dear dreams have all been mine.
I like the stream, the rock, the bay,
I like the smell of new-mown hay,
I like the babbling of the brooks,
I like the creaking of the crooks,
I like the peaches, and the posies,-
But chiefly, when the season closes,
And often, in the month of fun,
When every poacher cleans his gun,
And Cockneys tell enormous lies,
And stocks are pretty sure to rise,
And e'en the Chancellor, they say,
Goes to a point the nearest way,
I hurry from my drowsy desk
To revel in the picturesque,
To hear beneath those ancient trees
The far-off murmur of the bees,
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