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If he studies the news in the papers
While you are preparing the tea,
While moonlight lies soft on the sea,
If he has not a musical “ Oh!”
My own Araminta, say “No!”
Among the stockbrokers and Jews, If he has not a heart full of pity,
If he don't stand six feet in his shoes, If his lips are not redder than roses,
If his hands are not whiter than snow, If he has not the model of noses,
My own Araminta, say “No!” If he speaks of a tax or a duty,
If he does not look grand on his knees, If he's blind to a landscape of beauty,
Hills, valleys, rocks, waters, and trees,
If he likes not to hear the blast blow,
My own Araminta, say "No!”
Come down from the home of his rest;
On the buds he loves ever the best; And oh ! from its ivory portal
Like music his soft speech must flow !If he speak, smile, or walk like a mortal,
My own Araminta, say “No!” Don't listen to tales of his bounty,
Don't hear what they say of his birth,
Don't calculate what he is worth;
And see if he turns out his toe;
Winthrop M. Praed
Ay, here stands the Poplar, so tall and so stately,
On whose tender rind-'twas a little one thenWe carved her initials; though not very lately,
We think in the year eighteen hundred and ten. Yes, here is the G which proclaim'd Georgiana;
Our heart's empress then; see, 'tis grown all askew; And it's not without grief we perforce entertain a
Conviction it now looks much more like a Q.
Her loved patronymic--Ah! can it be so ?
A D? we'll be Deed if it isn't an O!
That thus on our labours stern Chronos should frown;
Richard H. Barham.
You'll come to our Ball;—since we parted,
I've thought of you more than I'll say ;
For a week, when they took you away.
Our walks on the Ness and the Den,
Which you used to sing to me then.
'Twere idle, or worse, to recall :
But Clarence, you'll come to our Ball !
You put on your cap and your gown ;
And changed from the spur to the crown:
The voice that was best when it falter'd
Is fuller and firmer in tone,
Dear Clarence—it is not your own:
Your coat don't become you at all; And why is your hair so neglected ?
You must have it curl'd for our Ball.
I've often been out upon Haldon
To look for a covey with pup; I've often been over to Shaldon,
To see how your boat is laid up:
I've ridden the filly you broke;
In the shade of your favourite oak:
I sat in your love of a shawl;
Perhaps, if you'll come to our Ball.
You'll find us all changed since you vanish’d;
We've set up a National School; And waltzing is utterly banish’d,
And Ellen has married a fool;
Miss Hyacinth threatens a rout,
Papa is laid up with the gout ;
And Anne has gone off with Sir Paul;
And I'll tell you the rest at the Ball.
You'll meet all your Beauties; the Lily,
And the Fairy of Willowbrook Farm, And Lucy, who made me so silly
At Dawlish, by taking your arm; Miss Manners, who always abused you
For talking so much about Hock, And her sister, who often amused you
By raving of rebels and Rock;
And something which surely would answer.
An heiress quite fresh from Bengal; So, though you were seldom a dancer,
You'll dance, just for once, at our Ball.
It shuts out the sunshine of truth:
It makes an old age of our youth;
Like a streamlet beginning to freeze, Though it cannot tum ice in a minute,
Grows harder by sudden degrees : Time treads o’er the graves of affection;
Sweet honey is turn’d into gall;
That ever you danced at our Ball !
To-day you have critical ears;
Alas ! you've been dining with Peers;
You've forgotten the when and the how; There was one you liked better than any,
Perhaps you've forgotten her now. But of those you remember most newly,
Of those who delight or enthrall, None love you a quarter so truly
As some you will find at our Ball. They tell me you've many who flatter,
Because of your wit and your song: They tell me--and what does it matter?
You like to be praised by the throng: They tell me you're shadow'd with laurel :
They tell me you're loved by a Blue :
Dear Clarence, that cannot be true!
Before you grew clever and tall;
Winthrop M. Praed.
SWEET Nea !—for your lovely sake
I weave these rambling numbers, Because I've lain an hour awake,
And can't compose my slumbers;
Is round my pillow beaming,
Some witchery o'er my dreaming! Because we've pass'd some joyous days:
And danced some merry dances; Because we love old Beaumont's plays,
And old Froissart's romances ! Because whene'er I hear your words
Some pleasant feeling lingers; Because I think your heart has cords
That vibrate to your fingers ! Because you've got those long, soft curls,
I've sworn should deck my goddess; Because you're not, like other girls,
All bustle, blush, and boddice! Because your eyes are deep and blue,
Your fingers long and rosy; Because a little child and you
Would make one's home so cozy! Because your little tiny nose
Turns up so pert and funny; Because I know you choose your beaux
More for their mirth than money; Because I think you'd rather twirl
A waltz, with me to guide you, Than talk small nonsense with an earl,
And a coronet beside you ! Because you don't object to walk,
And are not given to fainting; Because you have not learnt to talk
Of flowers, and Poonah-painting;