Miss Patterson has been to France,
Her heart's delight is in a dance;
The thing her brother cannot bear,
So she must practise with a chair.
Then at a waltz her mother winks;
But Pa says roundly what he thinks,
All dòs-à-dòs, not vis-à-vis,
Like our united family.
We none of us that whirling love,
Which both our parents disapprove;
A hornpipe we delight in more,
Or graceful Minuèt de la Cour,
A special favorite with Mamma,
Who used to dance it with Papa;
In this we still keep step, you see,
In our united family.
Then books-to hear the Cobbs' debates!
One worships Scott-another hates;
Monk Lewis, Ann fights stoutly for,
And Jane likes" Bunyan's Holy War."
The father on MacCulloch pores,
The mother says all books are bores;
But blue serene as heaven are we,
In our united family.
We never wrangle to exalt
Scott, Banim, Bulwer, Hope, or Galt,
We care not whether Smith or Hook,
So that a novel be the book
And in one point we all are fast,
Of novels we prefer the last
In that the very Heads agree
In our united family!
To turn to graver matters still,
How much we see of sad self-will!
Miss Scrope, with brilliant views in life,
Would be a poor lieutenant's wife;
A lawyer has her pa's good word,
Her ma has looked her out a lord;
What would they not all give to be
Like our united family!
By one congenial taste allied,
Our dreams of bliss all coincide;
We're all for solitudes and cots,
And love, if we may choose our lots-
As partner in the rural plan,
Each paints the same dear sort of man;
One heart alone there seems to be
In our united family.
One heart, one hope, one wish, one mind-
One voice, one choice, all of a kind;
And can there be a greater bliss-
A little heaven on earth-than this?
The truth to whisper in your ear,
It must be told!-we are not near
The happiness that ought to be
In our united family!
Alas! 'tis our congénial taste
That lays our little pleasures waste;—
We all delight, no doubt, to sing,
We all delight to touch the string,
But where's the harp that nine may touch? And nine" May Moons" are eight too much;
Just fancy nine, all in one key,
Of our united family!
The play-O how we love a play!
But half the bliss is shorn away;
On winter nights we venture nigh,
But think of houses in July!
Nine crowded in a private box,
Is apt to pick the stiffest locks;
Our curls would all fall out, though we
Are one united family!
In art the self-same line we walk,
We all are fond of heads in chalk,
We one and all our talent strain
Adelphi prizes to obtain ;
Nine turbaned Turks are duly sent,
But can the Royal Duke present
Nine silver palettes—no, not he—
To our united family?
Our eating shows the very thing,
We all prefer the liver-wing,
Asparagus when scarce and thin,
And peas directly they come in;
The marrow-bone-if there be one-
The ears of hare when crisply done,
The rabbit's brain-we all agree
In our united family.
In dress the same result is seen,
We all so doat on apple-green;
But nine in green would seem a school
Of charity to quizzing fool ;
We cannot all indulge our will
With "that sweet silk on Ludgate Hill,"
No remnant can sufficient be
For our united family.
In reading, hard is still our fate;
One cannot read o'erlooked by eight,
And nine "Disowned"-nine "Pioneers,"
Nine Chaperons," nine "Buccaneers,
Nine "Maxwells," nine "Tremaines," and such,
Would dip into our means too much ;
Three months are spent o'er volumes three,
In our united family.
Unhappy Muses! if the Nine
Above in doom with us combine;
In vain we breathe the tender flame,
Our sentiments are all the same,
And nine complaints addressed to Hope
Exceed the editorial scope;
One in, and eight put out, must be
Of our united family!
But this is naught-of deadlier kind
A ninefold woe remains behind.
O why were we so art and part?
So like in taste, so one in heart?
Nine cottages may be to let,
But here's the thought to make us fret,
We cannot each add Frederic B.
To our united family.
AFTER such years of dissension and strife,
Some wonder that Peter should weep for his wife;
But his tears on her grave are nothing surprising―
He's laying her dust, for fear of its rising.
"The clashing of my armor in my ears
Sounds like a passing bell; my buckler puts me
In mind of a bier; this, my broadsword, a pickaxe
To dig my grave.
"TWAS in that memorable year
France threatened to put off in
Flat-bottomed boats, intending each
To be a British coffin,
To make sad widows of our wives,
And every babe an orphan :
When coats were made of scarlet cloaks,
And heads were dredged with flour,
I listed in the Lawyers' Corps,
Against the battle-hour;
A perfect Volunteer--for why?
I brought my "will and power."
One dreary day—a day of dread,
Like Cato's, over-cast-
About the hour of six (the morn
And I were breaking fast),
There came a loud and sudden sound
That struck me all aghast!
A dismal sort of morning roll,
That was not to be eaten :
Although it was no skin of mine,
But parchment that was beaten,
I felt tattooed through all my flesh,
Like any Otaheitan.
|