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MISS AMELIA JANE MORTIMER, LONDON,
TỌ SIR HENRY CLIFFORD, PARIS.
DEAR Harry you owe me letter
Nay, I really believe it is two; But I make
you still farther my debtor-
I can't overcome my regret :
And have never recovered it yet!
I have scarcely been out to a party,
But have sent an excuse, or been ill; I have played but three times at ecarte,
And danced but a single quadrille; And then I was sad, for my heart ne'er
One moment ceased thinking of thee I'd a handsome young man for a partner, And a handsomer still vis-a-vis.
But I had such a pain in my forehead,
And felt so ennuied and so tired,
Yet they say I was really admired !
As he whispered his friend, and said he, « The best and most beautiful dancer
Is the lady in white"-meaning me!
I've been once to Lord Dorival's soirees,
Whose daughter in music excels-
They will know if you ask at Pardel's
But the melody died on my tongue;
It was one we so often have sung.
In your last
you desire me to mention The news of the court and the town; But there's nothing now worth your attention,
Or deserving of my noting down. They say things are bad in the city, And
thinks they'll only get worse ; And they say new bonnets are pretty,
But I think them quite the reverse.
Lady Black has brought out her three daughters,
Good figures but timid and shy;
And the doctors declare she will die.
It's all off 'twixt Miss Brown and Sir Stephen,
He found they could never agree; Her temper's so very uneven,
I always said how it would be.
The Miss Whites are grown very fine creatures,
Though they look rather large in a room; Miss Gray is gone off in her features,
Miss Green has gone off—with her groom ! Lord Littleford's dead, and that noodle
His son has succeeded his sire;
and I used to admire.
Little Joe is advancing in knowledge,
He begs me to send his regard,
But mamma thinks he studies too hard.
My French femme de chambre, Baptiste; Pa wishes you'd send one from Paris,
But he must be a first rate artiste.
I don't like my last new piano,
Its tones are so terribly sharp;
And get pa to buy me a harp.
He was smoking just now a cigar!
And Lucy has learned the guitar.
I suppose you can talk like an artist,
Of statues, busts, paintings, virtu; But pray, love, don't turn Bonapartist, Pa will never consent if
do! “ You were born,” he will say, “Sir, a Briton,”
But forgive me so foolish a fear; If I thought you could blame what I've written,
I would soon wash it out with a tear!
I pray, sir, how like you the ladies,
Since you've quitted the land of your birth? I have heard the dark donnas of Cadiz
Are the loveliest women on earth. The Italians are lively and witty,
But I ne'er could their manners endure; Nor do I think French women pretty,
Though they have a most charming tournure !
I was told you were flirting at Calais,
And next were intriguing at Rome; But I smiled at their impotent malice,
Yet I must say I wished you at home!
And felt you would ever be true,
Each night-and its victim was you !
I'm arrived at the end of my paper,
So, dearest, you'll not think it rude, If I ring for my seal and a taper,
And think it high time to conclude.
Adieu then—dejected and lonely,
Till I see you I still shall remain, Addio mio caro-yours only
P. S.—You may buy me a dress like Selina's,
Her complexion 's so much like my own;
For a case of his Eau de Cologne.
Let it also intelligence bring,
And what will be worn for the Spring!