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You once could be pleased with our ballads ;
To-day you have critical ears;
Alas! you've been dining with Peers;
You've forgotten the when and the how;
Perhaps you've forgotten her now.
Of those who delight or enthral,
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 shadowed with laurel,
They tell me you're loved by a Blue; They tell me you're sadly immoral
Dear Clarence, that cannot be true! But to me you are still what I found you
Before you grew clever and tall ; And you'll think of the spell that once bound you:
And you'll come, won't you come ? to our Ball }
“There is, perhaps, no subject of more universal interest in the whole range of natural knowledge, than that of the unceasing fluctuations which take place in the atmosphere in which we are immersed."
At Cheltenham, where one drinks one's fill
Of folly and cold water,
With old Sir Geoffrey's daughter.
When summer's rose is newest;
When antumn's sky is bluest;
Of life's most precious flowers,
And half were of its showers.
I spoke of novels :-“Vivian Grey"
Was positively charming,
And “Frankenstein" alarming;
I said " De Vere” was chastely told,
Thought well of “Herbert Lacy," Called Mr. Banim's sketches“ bold,”
And Lady Morgan's “racy;"
Was vastly entertaining;
Because it's always raining !"
I talked of music's gorgeous fane,
I raved about Rossini,
And criticised Pacini;
The trumpets more pacific,
And voted Paul “terrific," What cared she for Medea's pride
Or Desdemona's sorrow ? “Alas !" my beauteous listener sighed,
66 We must have storms to-morrow !"
I told her tales of other lands;
Of ever-boiling fountains, Of poisonous lakes, and barren sands,
Vast forests, trackless mountains : I painted bright Italian skies,
I lauded Persian Roses, Coined similes for Spanish eyes,
And jests for Indian noses ;
I laughed at Lisbon's love of mass,
And Vienna's dread of treason; And Laura asked me where the glass
Stood at Madrid last season.
I broached whate'er had gone its rounds,
The week before, of scandal ; What made Sir Luke lay down his hounds,
And Jane take up her Handel ; Why Julia walked upon the heath,
With the pale moon above her; Where Flora lost her false front teeth,
And Anne her false lover; How Lord de B. and Mrs. L.
Had crossed the sea together ; My shuddering partner cried—“Oh, Ceil !
How could they in such weather ?"
Was she a blue ?—I put my trust
In strata, petals, gases;
The toga and the fasces;
Of folly from Endymion;
Of Messrs. Way and Simeon ;
To quote the morning paper; The horrid phantoms come again,
Rain, hail, and snow, and vapor.
Flat flattery was my only chance,
I acted deep devotion,
Grace in her every motion ;
Prayer, passion, folly, feeling; And wildly looked upon the floor,
And wildly on the ceiling ;
And shawls upon her shoulder;
She "never found it colder."
I don't object to wealth or land ;
And she will have the giving
Some thousands, and a living.
Sings sweetly, dances finely,
And sits a horse divinely. But to be linked for life to her!
The desperate man who tried it, Might marry a barometer,
And hang himself beside it !