Each Sunday night we gave a rout
To fops and flirts, a pretty list;
And when I tried to steal away
I found my study full of whist!
Then, first to come, and last to go,
There always was a Captain Hogg-
What d'ye think of that, my cat?
What d'ye think of that, my dog?
Now was not that an awful dream
For one who single is and snug—
With Pussy in the elbow-chair,
And Tray reposing on the rug ?—
If I must totter down the hill
'Tis safest done without a clog—
What d'ye think of that, my cat?
What d'ye think of that, my dog?
NOSE and chin would shame a knocker,
Wrinkles that would puzzle Cocker:
Mouth which marks the envious scorner,
With a scorpion in each corner,
Turning its quick tail to sting you
In the place that most may wring you:
Eyes of lead-like hue, and gummy ;
Carcass picked out from some mummy;
Bowels (but they were forgotten,
Save the liver, and that's rotten);
Skin all sallow, flesh all sodden-
Form the Devil would frighten God in.
Is't a corpse stuck up for show,
Galvanized at times to go
With the Scripture in connection,
New proof of the resurrection?
Vampyre, ghost, or ghoul, what is it?
I would walk ten miles to miss it.
Many passengers arrest one,
To demand the same free question.
Shorter's my reply, and franker—
That's the Bard, the Beau, the Banker.
Yet if you could bring about,
Just to turn him inside out,
Satan's self would seem less sooty,
And his present aspect-Beauty.
Mark that (as he masks the bilious
Air, so softly supercilious)
Chastened bow, and mock humility,
Almost sickened to servility;
Hear his tone, (which is to talking
That which creeping is to walking --
Now on all-fours, now on tiptoe),
Hear the tales he lends his lip to;
Little hints of heavy scandals,
Every friend in turn he handles;
All which women or which men do,
Glides forth in an innuendo,
Clothed in odds and ends of humor-
Herald of each paltry rumor.
From divorces down to dresses,
Women's frailties, men's excesses,
All which life presents of evil
Make for him a constant revel.
You're his foe--for that he fears you,
And in absence blasts and sears you:
You're his friend-for that he hates you, First caresses, and then baits you,
Darting on the opportunity
When to do it with impunity:
You are neither-then he'll flatter
Till he finds some trait for satire;
Hunts your weak point out, then shows it
Where it injures to disclose it,
In the mode that's most invidious,
Adding every trait that's hideous,
From the bile, whose blackening river
Rushes through his Stygian liver.
Then he thinks himself a lover:
Why I really can't discover
In his mind, age, face, or figure:
Viper-broth might give him vigor:
Let him keep the caldron steady,
He the venom has already.
For his faults, he has but one—
'Tis but envy, when all's done.
He but pays the pain he suffers;
Clipping, like a pair of snuffers,
Lights which ought to burn the brighter
For us temporary blighter.
He's the cancer of his species,
And will eat himself to pieces;
Plague personified, and famine;
Devil, whose sole delight is damning!
For his neris, would you know 'em?
Once he wrote a pretty Poem.
AT Cheltenham, where one drinks one's fill
Of folly and cold water,
I danced, last year, my first quadrille
With old Sir Geoffrey's daughter.
Her cheek with summer's rose might vie,
When summer's rose is newest;
Her eyes were blue as autumn's sky,
When autumn's sky is bluest;
And well my heart might deem her one
Of life's most precious flowers,
For half her thoughts were of its sun,
And half were of its showers.
I spoke of novels:-"Vivian Gray"
Was positively charming,
And “Almack's" infinitely gay,
And "Frankenstein" alarming;
I said "De Vere" was chastely told,
Thought well of "Herbert Lacy,"
Called Mr. Banim's sketches "bold,"
And Lady Morgan's "racy;"
I vowed the last new thing of Hook's
Was vastly entertaining;
And Laura said-"I dote on books,
Because it's always raining!"
I talked of music's gorgeous fane,
I raved about Rossini,
Hoped Ronzo would come back again,
And criticized Paccini;
I wished the chorus singers dumb
The trumpets more pacific,
And eulogized Brocard's aplomb
And voted Paul "terrific."
What cared she for Medea's pride
Or Desdemona's sorrow?
"Alas!" my beauteous listener sighed,
"We must have storms to-morrow!"
I told her tales of other lands;
Of ever-boiling fountains,
Of poisonous lakes, and barren sands,
Vast forests, trackless mountains;
I painted bright Italian skies,
I lauded Persian roses,
Coined similes for Spanish eyes,
And jests for Indian noses;
I laughed at Lisbon's love of mass,
And Vienna's dread of treason;
And Laura asked me where the glass.
Stood at Madrid last season.
I broached whate'er had gone its rounds,
The week before, of scandal;
What made Sir Luke lay down his hounds,
And Jane take up her Handel;
Why Julia walked upon the heath,
With the pale moon above her; Where Flora lost her false front teeth, And Anne her false lover;
How Lord de B. and Mrs. L.
Had crossed the sea together;
My shuddering partner cried-"Oh, Ciel! How could they in such weather?"
Was she a blue ?-I put my trust
In strata, petals, gases;
A boudoir pedant ?—I discussed
The toga and the fasces;
A cockney-muse?—I mouthed a deal
Of folly from Endymion:
A saint?-I praised the pious zeal
Of Messrs. Way and Simeon;
A politician?—It was vain
To quote the morning paper;
The horrid phantoms come again,
Rain, hail, and snow, and vapor.
Flat flattery was my only chance,
I acted deep devotion,
Found magic in her every glance,
Grace in her every motion;
I wasted all a stripling's lore,
Prayer, passion, folly, feeling;
And wildly looked upon the floor,
And wildly on the ceiling;
I envied gloves upon her arm,
And shawls upon her shoulder;
And when my worship was most warın,
She "never found it colder."
I don't object to wealth or land ·
And she will have the giving
Of an extremely pretty hand,
Some thousands, and a living.
She makes silk purses, broiders stools,
Sings sweetly, dances finely,
Paints screens, subscribes to Sunday-schools,
And sits a horse divinely.
But to be linked for life to her!-
The desperate man who tried it,
Might marry a barometer,
And hang himself beside it!
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