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If he studies the news in the papers,

While you are preparing the tea,
If he talks of the damps and the vapors,

While moonlight lies soft on the sea,
If he's sleepy while you are capricious,

If he has not a musical “ Oh !"
If he does not call Werter delicious,

My own Araminta, say “No!"

If he ever sets foot in the city,

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 dotes not on desolate towers,

If he likes not to hear the blast blow, If he knows not the language of flowers

My own Araminta, say “No !”

He must walk like a god of old story,

Come down from the home of his rest; He must smile like the sun in its glory,

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 beauty,

Don't hear what they tell of his birth, Don't look at his seat in the county,

Don't calculate what he is worth;
But give him a theme to write verse on,

And see if he turns out his toe;-
If he's only an excellent person, -

My own Araminta, say “No!"


“Comment ! c'est lui? que le je regards encore !-c'est que vraiment il est bien change; n'est ce pas, mon papa ?"


You'll come to our ball;-since we parted,

I've thought of you more than I'll say ; Indeed I was half broken-hearted

For a week, when they took you away. Fond fancy brought back to my slumbers

Our walks on the Ness and the Den, And echoed the musical numbers Which

you used to sing to me then. I know the romance, since it's over,

'Twere idle, or worse, to recall;I know you're a terrible rover;

But, Clarence, you'll come to our Ball !

It's only a year since, at College,

You put on your cap and your gown;
But, Clarence, you've grown out of knowledge,

And changed from the spur to the crown:

The voice that was best when it faltered,

Is fuller and firmer in tone :
And the smile that should never have altered, -

Dear Clarence ;—it is not your own;
Your cravat was badly selected,

Your coat don't become you at all; And why is your hair so neglected ?

You must have it curled 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.
In spite of the terrors of Aunty,

I've ridden the filly you broke;
And I've studied your sweet little Dante

In the shade of your favorite oak:
When I sat in July to Sir Lawrence,

I sat in your love of a shawl; And I'll wear what you brought me from Florence,

Perhaps, if you'll come to our Ball.

You'll find us all changed since you vanished;

We've set up a National School ; And waltzing is utterly banished;

And Ellen has married a fool;
The Major is going to travel ;

Miss Hyacinth threatens a rout;
The walk is laid down with fresh gravel;

Papa is laid up with the gout:

And Jane has gone on with her easels,

And Anne has gone off with Sir Paul; And Fanny is sick with the measles,

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.

But out on the world !--from the flowers

It shuts out the sunshine of truth: It blights the green leaves in the bowers,

It makes an old age of our youth : And the flow of our feeling, once in it,

Like a streamlet beginning to freeze, Though it cannot turn ice in a minute,

Grows harder by sudden degrees. Time treads o'er the graves of affection ;

Sweet honey is turned into gall; Perhaps you have no recollection

That ever you danced at our Ball.

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