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H yes ! he is in Parliament;

He's been returning thanks ;
You can't conceive the time he's spent

Already on his franks.
He'll think of nothing, night and day,

But place, and the Gazette : No matter what the people say,

You won't believe them yet.


“He fill’d an album, long ago,

With such delicious rhymes ;
Now we shall only see, you know,

His speeches in the Times ;
And liquid tone, and beaming brow,

Bright eyes and locks of jet,
He'll care for no such nonsense now:

Oh! don't believe them yet!

“I vow he's turned a Goth, a Hun,

By that disgusting Bill;
He'll never make another pun;

He's danced his last quadrille.
We shall not see him flirt again


fair coquette ; He'll never laugh at Drury Lane :”—

Psha !- don't believe them yet.

“ Last week I heard his uncle boast

He's sure to have the seals ;
I read it in the • Morning Post'

That he has dined at Peel's;

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You'll never see him any more,

He's in a different set;
He cannot eat at half-past four :

No ?-don't believe them yet.

“ In short, he'll soon be false and cold,

And infinitely wise ;
He'll grow next year extremely old, ,

He'll tell enormous lies;
He'll learn to flatter and forsake,

To feign and to forget : "-
O whisper-or my heart will break-
You won't believe them yet!



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HE glow and the glory are plighted

To darkness, for evening is come ; The lamp in Glebe Cottage is lighted, The birds and the sheep-bells are

I'm alone in my casement, for Pappy

Is summon'd to dinner at Kew:
I'm alone, dearest Fred, but I'm happy-

I'm thinking of you !
I wish you were here ! Were I duller

Than dull, you'd be dearer than dear;
I am drest in your favourite colour-

Dear Fred, how I wish you were here!
I am wearing my lazuli necklace,
The necklace


fasten'd askew ! Was there ever so rude and so reckless

A darling as you ?

I want you to come and pass sentence

On two or three books with a plot ; Of course you

know “ Janet's Repentance? I'm reading Sir Waverley Scott, The story of Edgar and Lucy,

How thrilling, romantic, and true! The Master (his bride was a goosey!

Reminds me of you.

They tell me Cockaigne has been crowning

A Poet whose garland endures; It was you who first spouted me Browning,

That stupid old Browning of yours !
His vogue and his verve are alarming,

I'm anxious to give him his due,
But, Fred, he's not nearly so charming

A poet as you !

I heard how


shot at The Beeches, I saw how you rode Chanticleer, I have read the report of your speeches,

And echo'd the echoing cheer. There's a whisper of hearts you are breaking,

Dear Fred, I believe it, I do! Small marvel that Fashion is making

Her idol of you!

Alas for the world, and its dearly

Bought triumph, its fugitive bliss ;
Sometimes I half wish I was merely

A plain or a penniless miss;
But perhaps one is best with “ a measure

Of pelf,” and I'm not sorry, too,
That I'm pretty, because 'tis a pleasure,

My darling, to you !

Your whim is for frolic and fashion,

Your taste is for letters and art ;-
This rhyme is the commonplace passion

That glows in a fond woman's heart :
Lay it by in a dainty deposit

For relics--we all have a few !
Love, some day they'll print it, because it

Was written to you.



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AMENT, lament, Sir Isaac Heard,
Put mourning round thy page,


For here lies one, who ne'er preferr'd A Viscount to a Marquis yet. Beside him place the God of Wit,

Before him Beauty's rosiest girls, Apollo for a star he'd quit,

And Love's own sister for an Earl's. Did niggard fate no peers afford,

He took, of course, to peer's relations ; And, rather than not sport a Lord,

Put up with even the last creations. Even Irish names, could he but tag 'em

With “ Lord” and “Duke,” were sweet to call; And, at a pinch, Lord Ballyraggum

Was better than no Lord at all. Heaven grant him now some noble nook,

For, rest his soul! he'd rather be Genteelly damn'd beside a Duke, Than sav'd in vulgar company.




EHY don't the men propose, mamma?

Why don't the men propose ?
Each seems just coming to the point,
And then



goes! It is no fault of yours, mamma,

That everybody knows;
You fête the finest men in town,

Yet, oh, they won't propose !
I'm sure I've done


best, mamma,
To make a proper match;
For coronets and eldest sons

I'm ever on the watch:
I've hopes when some distingué beau

A glance upon me throws;
But though he'll dance, and smile, and flirt,

Alas, he won't propose !
I've tried to win by languishing,

And dressing like a blue;
I've bought big books, and talk'd of them,

As if I'd read them through!
With hair cropp'd like a man, I've felt

The heads of all the beaux ;
But Spurzheim could not touch their hearts,

And oh, they won't propose !
I threw aside the books, and thought

That ignorance was bliss ;
I felt convinced that men preferr'd

A simple sort of Miss ;
And so I lisp'd out naught beyond

or plain“ noes," And wore a sweet unmeaning smile ;

Yet, oh, they won't propose !

Plain “yeses


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