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Will it find me grown thinner, or fatter,
Or fonder of wrong or of right, Or married, or buried ?-no matter,
Good-night to the Season !-Good-night!
ARRIVALS AT A WATERING-PLACE.
I play a spade :-such strange new faces
Are flocking in from near and far; Such frights– Miss Dobbs holds all the aces,
One can't imagine who they are ! The Lodgings at enormous prices,
New Donkeys, and another fly; And Madame Bonbon out of ices,
Although we're scarcely in July: We're quite as sociable as any,
But one old horse can hardly crawl; And really, where there are so many,
We can't tell where we ought to call.
Pray, who has seen the odd old fellow
Who took the Doctor's house last week ?A pretty chariot,livery yellow
Almost as yellow as his check: A widower, sixty-five, and surly
And stiffer than a poplar-tree; Drinks rum and water, gets up early
To dip his carcass in the sea;
He's always in a monstrous hurry,
And always talking of Bengal;
I think, Louisa, we should call.
And so Miss Jones, the Mantua-maker,
Has let her cottage on the hill !The drollest man, a sugar-baker,
Last year imported from the till ; Prates of his “orses” and his “oney,"
Is quite in love with fields and farms;
Will buy a glorious coat-of-arms;
Some say he means to give a ball;
I think, Sir Thomas, you might call.
That poor young man !—I'm sure and ce:tain
Despair is making up his shroud; He walks all night beneath the curtain
Of the dim sky and murky cloud: Draws landscapes,-throws such mournfuil
glances!— Writes verses,—has such splendid eyes; An ugly name,—but Laura fancies
He's some great person in disguise ! — And since his dress is all the fashion,
And since he's very dark and tall, I think that, out of pure compassion,
I'll get papa to go and call.
So Lord St. Ives is occupying
The whole of Mr. Ford's Hotel;
A little nag I want to sell.
Blue eyes, -eighteen, —or thereabouts ;Of course, you know, we hope it's marriage!
But yet the femme de chambre doubts. She looked so pensive when we met her;
Poor thing! and such a charming shawl !Well! till we understand it better,
It's quite impossible to call.
Old Mr. Fund, the London banker,
Arrived to-day at Premium Court;
In such a horrid, dangerous port;
(Contractors play the meanest tricks)-The roof's as crazy as its master,
And he was born in fifty-six :
The colonnade is sure to fall;
Unless we make great haste to call.
Who was that sweetest of sweet creatures,
Last Sunday, in the Rector's seat ? The finest shape,—the loveliest features,
I never saw such tiny feet.
My brother (this is quite between us),
Poor Arthur,—twas a sad affair ! Love at first sight,-she's quite a Venus, –
But then she's poorer far than fair :
Agreed it would not do at all ;
It's settled that we're not to call.
And there's an Author, full of knowledge;
And there's a Captain on half-pay; And there's a Baronet from College,
Who keeps a boy, and rides a bay ; And sweet Sir Marcus, from the Shannon,
Fine specimen of brogue and bone; And Doctor Calipee, the Canon,
Who weighs, I fancy, twenty stone; A maiden lady is adorning
The faded front of Lily Hall ;Upon my word, the first fine morning
We'll make a round, my dear, and call.
Alas! disturb not, maid and matron,
The swallow in my humble thatch; Your son may find a better patron,
Your niece may meet a richer match: I can't afford to give a dinner,—
I never was on Almack's list; And since I seldom rise a winner,
I never like to play at whist :