H

Near the corner of Oak Street and Pearl;

He can dress, dance, and bow to the ladies with grace, And ties his cravat with a curl.

He's asked to all parties-north, south, cast, and west,
That take place between Chatham and Cherry;
And when he's been absent, full oft has the "best
Society" ceased to be merry.

And nothing has darkened a sky so serene,
Nor disordered his beauship's Elysium,
Till this season among our élite there has been
What is called by the clergy "a schism."

'Tis all about eating and drinking-one set
Gives sponge-cake, a few "kisses" or so,
And is cooled after dancing with classic sherbet,
"Sublimed" (see Lord Byron) "with snow."

Another insists upon punch and perdrix,
Lobster-salad, champagne, and, by way
Of a novelty only, those pearls of our sea,
Stewed oysters from Lynn-Haven Bay.

Miss Flounce, the young milliner, blue-eyed and bright,
In the front parlor over her shop,
"Entertains," as the phrase is, a party to-night,
Upon peanuts and ginger-pop.

And Miss Fleece, who's a hosier, and not quite as young,
But is wealthier far than Miss Flounce,

She "entertains" also to-night with cold tongue,
Smoked herring, and cherry-bounce.

In praise of cold water the Theban bard spoke,

He of Teos sang sweetly of wine;

Miss Flounce is a Pindar in cashmere and cloak,

Miss Fleece an Anacrcon divine.

The Montagues carry the day in Swamp Place;

In Pike Street the Capulets reign;

A limonadière is the badge of one race,

Of the other a flask of champagne.

Now as each the same evening her soirée announces,

What better, he asks, can be done

Than drink water from eight until ten with the Flounces, And then wine with the Fleeces till one!

SONG.

BY MISS

AIR: "To ladies' eyes a round, boy."

MOORE.

HE winds of March are humming

Their parting song, their parting song,

And summer skies are coming,

And days grow long, and days grow long.

I watch, but not in gladness,

Our garden-tree, our garden-tree;

It buds, in sober sadness,

Too soon for me, too soon for me.

My second winter's over,

Alas! and I, alas! and I

Have no accepted lover:

Don't ask me why, don't ask me why.

'Tis not asleep or idle

That Love has been, that Love has been;

For many a happy bridal

has seen, the

I've done a bridemaid's duty,

At three or four, at three or four;

My best bouquet had beauty,

Its donor more, its donor more.

My second winter's over,

Alas! and I, alas! and I

Have no accepted lover:

Don't ask me why, don't ask me why.

His flowers my bosom shaded

One sunny day, one sunny day;

The next they fled and faded,

Beau and bouquet, beau and bouquet.

In vain, at balls and parties,

I've thrown my net, I've thrown my net; This waltzing, watching heart is

Unchosen yet, unchosen yet.

My second winter's over,

Alas! and I, alas! and I

Have no accepted lover:

Don't ask me why, don't ask me why.

They tell me there's no hurry

For Hymen's ring, for Hymen's ring;

And I'm too young to marry:

'Tis no such thing, 'tis no such thing.

The next spring-tides will dash on

My eighteenth year, my eighteenth year;

It puts me in a passion,

Oh, dear, oh dear! oh dear, oh dear!

My second winter's over,

Alas! and I, alas! and I

Have no accepted lover:

Don't ask me why, don't ask me why.