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, If he don't stand six feet in his shoes, 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 flowersMy 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 mortalMy own Araminta, say "No!" Don't listen to tales of his beauty, OUR BALL. "Comment! c'est lui? que le je regards encore !-c'est que vraiment il est bien change; n'est ce pas, mon papa?" LES PREMIERS AMOURS. YOU'LL Come to our ball;-since we parted, For a week, when they took you away. 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; 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 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; The Major is going to travel; Miss Hyacinth threatens a rout; 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 Like a streamlet beginning to freeze, That ever you danced at our Ball. |