Whom bigotry drew on a hurdle
That artists might draw him on stone;
A small panorama of Seville,
A trap for demolishing flies,
A caricature of the Devil,
And a look from Miss Sheridan's eyes.
Good night to the Season!—the flowers
Of the grand horticultural fête,
When boudoirs were quitted for bowers,
And the fashion was-not to be late;
When all who had money and leisure
Grew rural o'er ices and wines,
All pleasantly toiling for pleasure,
All hungrily pining for pines,
And making of beautiful speeches,
And marring of beautiful shows,
And feeding on delicate peaches,
And treading on delicate toes.
Good night to the Season!-Another
Will come, with its trifles and toys,
And hurry away, like its brother,
In sunshine, and odour, and noise. Will it come with a rose or a briar?
Will it come with a blessing or curse? Will its bonnets be lower or higher?
Will its morals be better or worse?
Will it find me grown thinner or fatter, Or fonder of wrong or of right,
Or married- or buried ?
Good night to the Season-good night!
"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 scarcely 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 cheek;
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;
They say his cook makes noble curry;
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;
A horrid Vandal, but his money
Will buy a glorious coat of arms;
Old Clyster makes him take the waters;
Some say he means to give a ball;
And after all, with thirteen daughters,
I think, Sir Thomas, you might call.
"That poor young man!—I'm sure and certain Despair is making up his shroud;
He walks all night beneath the curtain
Of the dim sky and murky cloud;
Draws landscapes, - throws such mournful 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!
Last Saturday his man was trying
A little nag I want to sell.
He brought a lady in the carriage;
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!
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