Of science and logic he chatters, As fine and as fast as he can; His stories and jests are delightful ;- The stories not always quite true. May do pretty well at Lausanne; But it never would answer,-good gracious! Chez nous—in a talented man. He sneers,--how my Alice would scold him!- I vow I was quite in a passion; I broke all the sticks of my fan; But sentiment's quite out of fashion, It seems, in a talented man. Lady Bab, who is terribly moral, I listened, and doubted, dear Alice, For I saw, when my lady began, It was only the Dowager's malice;— She does hate a talented man! He's hideous, I own it. But fame, love, He's lame,--but Lord Byron was lame, love, Then his voice,-such a voice! my sweet creature, It's like your Aunt Lucy's toucan: But oh! what's a tone or a feature, When once one's a talented man? My mother, you know, all the season, He has been less horrid of late. But to-day, when we drive in the carriage, If ever I venture on marriage, P. S.-I have found, on reflection, (1831.) LETTERS FROM TEIGNMOUTH. I.—OUR BALL. "Comment! c'est lui? que je le regarde encore! C'est que vraiment il est bien changé; n'est ce pas, mon papa ?"-Les Premiers Amours. YOU'LL Come to our ball;-since we parted For a week, when they took you away. Which you used to sing to me then. It's only a year since, at College, You put on your cap and your gown; But, Clarence, you're grown out of knowledge, The voice that was best when it faltered, And the smile that should never have altered, Dear Clarence,-it is not your own; Your cravat was badly selected, Your coat don't become you at all; And why is your hair so neglected? You must have it curled for our Ball. I've often been out upon Haldon I sat in your love of a shawl; And I'll wear what you brought me from FloPerhaps, if you'll come to our Ball. [rence, You'll find us all changed since you vanished; We've set up a National School; And waltzing is utterly banished; The Major is going to travel; Miss Hyacinth threatens a rout; The walk is laid down with fresh gravel; Papa is laid up with the gout: And Jane has gone on with her easels, And Anne has gone off with Sir Paul; And Fanny is sick with the measles, And I'll tell you the rest at the Ball. You'll meet all your beauties;--the Lily, At Dawlish, by taking your arm; And something which surely would answer, But out on the world!-from the flowers Like a streamlet beginning to freeze, |