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OUR BALL.

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And the smile that should never have

alter'dDear Clarence—it is not your own: Your cravat is badly selected;

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

You must have it curl'd 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:
“ THE ROMANCE, SINCE IT'S OVER,

In spite of the terrors of Aunty, 'TWERE IDLE, OR WORSE, TO RECALL.”

I've ridden the filly you broke; You'll come to our Ball;—since we parted,

And I've studied your sweet little Dante I've thought of you more than I'll say;

In the shade of your favourite oak; Indeed, I was half broken-hearted

When I sat in July to Sir Lawrence, For a week, when they took you away.

I sat in your love of a shawl; Fond fancy brought back to my slumbers

bers And I'll wear what you brought me from Our walks on the Ness and the Den,

Florence, And echo'd the musical numbers

Perhaps, if you'll come to our Ball. Which you used to sing to me then.

You'll find us all changed since you vanI know the romance, since it's over, 'Twere idle, or worse, to recall;

ish'd; I know you're a terrible rover;

We've set up a National School; But, Clarence, you'll come to our Ball!

And waltzing is utterly banish'd,

And Ellen has married a fool;
It's only a year, since, at College,

The Major is going to travel,
You put on your cap and your gown; Miss Hyacinth threatens a rout,

nce, you're grown out of knowl. The walk is laid down with fresh gravel, edge,

Papa is laid up with the gout; And changed from the spur to the And Jane has gone on with her easels, crown:

And Anne has gone off with Sir Paul; The voice that was best when it falter'd And Fanny is sick with the measles,Is fuller and firmer in tone,

And I'll tell you the rest at the Ball.

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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.

You once could be pleased with our bal.

lads,To-day you have critical ears; You once could be charmed with our

salads, Alas! you've been dining with Peers; You trifled and Airted with many,

You've forgotten the when and the how; There was one you liked better than any,

Perhaps you've forgotten her now. But of those you remember most newly,

Of those who delight or enthrall, None love you a quarter so truly

As some you will find 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 turn’d into gall; Perhaps you have no recollection

That ever you danced 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 shadow'd 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!

Winthrop M. Praed.

“SHE COMES WITH TRIPPING PACE.”

Painted by Maud Humphrey.

COPYRIGHT 1892 BY FREDERICK A.STOKES COMPANY

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