Is really but a sprat;

eyes

There's no Romance in that!

He writes, and sends it by the post,

He doesn't bribe the maids:

cloaks,

Or long sword hanging down;
He dresses much like other folks,
And commonly in brown;
His collar he will not discard,
Or give up his cravat,
Lord Byron-like-he's not a
Bard-

There's no Romance in that!

He's rather bald, his sight is weak,
He's deaf in either drum;
Without a lisp he cannot speak,
But then-he's worth a plum.
He talks of stocks and three per

cents.

By way of private chat,

Of Spanish Bonds, and shares, and rents,

There's no Romance in that!

I sing no matter what I sing,

Di Tanti-or Crudel,

no!

He comes with loud rat-tat,
That startles half of Bedford

Row

There's no Romance in that!

He comes at nine, in time to choose

His coffee-just two cups,
And talks with Pa about the

news,

Repeats debates, and sups; John helps him with his coat And Jenkins hands his hat; aright, My lover bows, and says good night

There's no Romance in that!

I've long had Pa's and Ma's consent,

My aunt she quite approves,

King,

Di piacer-All's well;

He knows no more about a voice

For singing than a gnat-
And as to Music "has no choice,"-
There's no Romance in that!

None try to thwart our loves;
On Tuesday Reverend Mr. Mace
Will make me Mrs. Pratt,
Of Number Twenty, Sussex
Place-

There's no Romance in that!

To Waterloo, with sad ado,

And many a sigh and groan, Amongst the dead, came Patty Head,

To look for Peter Stone.

"O prithee tell, good sentinel, If I shall find him here?

I'm come

corse,

"Into our town a serjeant came With ribands all so fine, A-flaunting in his cap-alas!

His bow enlisted mine!

They taught him how to turn his toes,

And stand as stiff as starch;

My Ninety-Second dear!

May,

But it was love and March!

W