Q's a Quadrille, put instead of the Lancers:
R the Remonstrances made by the dancers:
is the Supper, where all went in pairs;
is the Twaddle they talked on the stairs: is the Uncle who "thought we'd be goin': V is the Voice which his niece replied "No" in: W is the Waiter, who sat up till eight:
is his Exit, not rigidly straight:
is a Yawning fit caused by the Ball:
stands for Zero, or nothing at all.
CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY.
O Times! no book!—and I must wait
A full half-hour ere Doldrum comes!
Brown would find pictures in the grate,
Jones watch the twirling of his
thumbs;
Both noble aims; but, after all,
E'en such delights are apt to pall.
Confound the stupid place!
What shall I do the time to pass?
I'll give five minutes to the glass,
And contemplate my face.
My face! Is this long strip of skin,
Which bears of worry many a trace,
Of sallow hue, of features thin,
This mass of seams and lines, my face?
The aspect's bad, the glass is wrong,
Some cheating ray must fall along
The surface of the plate!
I've known myself now forty year,
Yet never saw myself appear
In such a sorry state.
I'll speak to Doldrum-wait awhile!
Let's think a little while before deciding.
Of late I've noticed Nelly's smile
Has been less kind and more deriding.
Can I be growing old? Can youth
Have said farewell? The simple truth
I'll have, no doubt concealing;
Straightway I'll put my heart to school,
And though I find I've played the fool,
I'll speak out every feeling.
When introduced to Minnie Blair
Last night on waltzing purpose bent,
I saw that rosebud smile and stare,
Half pity, half astonishment.
"Engaged," she murmured as I bowed;
But ere I mingled with the crowd,
I caught her muttered word
"I waltz with him! How can Grace bring
Me such a pompous stout old thing?
She's really too absurd!"
A "stout old thing!" Oh, Lucy, love,
Ten long years resting in the grave,
Whose simply-sculptured tomb above
The feathery-tufted grasses wave—
Couldst thou bear such a term applied
To him who won thee for his bride,
Whose heart for thee nigh's broke?
Round whose slim neck thine arm would twine,
As round the elm the eglantine,
Or ivy round the oak.
"Twas but last week, in Truefitt's shop,
A man with aspect grave and calm,
Said I was "thinning at the top,"
And recommended some-one's Balm!
What "balm of Gilead" could recall
The mother's touch that used to fall
Upon my childish brow?
That soft sweet hand that used to toy
With thick curl clusters of her boy-
Where is that mother now?
Gone is my hack, my gallant roan,
Too hot for use. I've in his place
A cob "well up to fourteen stone,"
Of ambling gait and easy pace.
The arm that stopped the Slasher's blow,
Or clave Rhine's flood, hangs listless now,
No grist to any "mill."
The legs so stalwart and so strong
Which, all unfaltering, climbed Mont Blanc,
Now ache at Primrose Hill.
My heart! my what?-ten years
Ten dreary years of London life
And worldly selfishness, since last
My heart was quickened in Love's strife:
A look would make my pulses dance;
How swift would dim my bright eye's glance
When Grief turned on her main!
Naught makes my eyes now brightly glow
Save Mümm's Moselle, or Clos Vaugeot,
Or Veuve Clicquot's champagne.
Yet I have known—ay, I have known,
If e'er 'twere given to mortal here,
The pleasure of the lowered tone,
The whisper in the trellised ear ;
The furtive touch of tiny feet,
The heart's wild effervescing beat,
The maddened pulse's play :
Those hearts are now all still and cold,
Those feet are 'neath the churchyard mould,
And I have had my day!
What! quiv'ring lips and eyelids wet
At recollection of the dead!
No well-bred man should show regret
Though youth, though love, though hope be fled!
Ha! Doldrum, man, come back! What
news?
So Frank's gazetted to the Blues!
And Jack's got his divorce.
I'll toddle down towards the club;
A cutlet-then our usual "rub"-
You'll join us there, of course!
ERE on my desk it lies,
Here as the daylight dies,
One small glove, just her size-
Six and a quarter ;
Pearl-grey, a colour neat,
Deux boutons all complete,
Faint-scented, soft, and sweet;
Could glove be smarter?
Can I the day forget,
Years ago, when the pet
Gave it me?-where we met
Still I remember;
Then 'twas the summer time;
Now as I write this rhyme
Children love pantomime-
'Tis in December.
Fancy my boyish bliss
Then when she gave me this,
And how the frequent kiss
Crumpled its fingers;
Then she was fair and kind,
Now when I've changed my mind,
Still some scent undefined
On the glove lingers.
Though she's a matron sage,
Yet I have kept the gage;
While, as I pen this page,
Still comes a goddess,
Her eldest daughter, fair,
With the same eyes and hair:
Happy the arm, I swear,
That clasps her bodice.
Heaven grant her fate be bright,
And her step ever light
As it will be to-night,
First in the dances.
Why did her mother
False when I dared to love?
Zounds! I shall burn the glove!
This my romance is.
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