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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
-"Sweet, when actors first appear, The loud collision of applauding gloves.".
-MOULTRIE. Your labours, my talented brother,
Are happily over at last:
The Bill is rejected,—or passed;
As fast as your posters can crawl,
As usual, at Fustian Hall.
Arrangements are nearly completed ;
But still we've a Lover or two, Whom Lady Albina entreated
We'd keep, at all hazards, for you:
Sir Arthur makes horrible faces;
Lord John is a trifle too tall ;
To faint in, at Fustian Hall.
To listen and look at the rout :
And raving, and running about;
There Andrew and Anthony bawl ;
In chorus, at Fustian Hall.
We want you to bring us from town :
A nose and a hump for the clown;
We want a few masks for our ball;
His white wig, for Fustian Hall !
Friar Tuck has forgotten his cowl ;
For want of a lizard and owl :
Pray get us a love of a pall,
On feelings, at Fustian Hall ?
If you'll do your endeavour to bring,
Our prologue, and that sort of thing ;
Poor Crotchet, who did them supremely,
Is gone for a Judge to Bengal;
This season, at Fustian Hall.
Will make a sensation, I feel ; We all think there never was seen a
Performer so like the O'Neill:
Has deeply affected us all;
There'll be twenty at Fustian Hall !
On purpose to harrow her soul; She stares, till a deep spell comes o'er her,
At a knife, or a cross, or a bowl. The sword never seems to alarm her
That hangs on a peg to the wall ; And she doats on thy rusty old armour,
Lord Fustian, of Fustian Hall.
She stabbed a bright mirror this morning,
(Poor Kitty was quite out of breath !)And trampled, in anger and scorning,
A bonnet and feathers to death. But hark !—I've a part in “The Stranger," —
There's the Prompter's detestable cail !" Come, Clarence-our Romeo and Ranger
We want you at Fustian Hall !
Tell him I love him yet,
As in that joyous time; Tell him I ne'er forget,
Though memory now be crime; Tell him, when sad moonlight
Is over earth and sea,
He must not dream of me !
Tell him to go where Fame
Looks proudly on the brave; Tell him to win a name
By deeds on land and wave; Green-green upon his brow
The laurel wreath shall be ; Although the laurel now
May not be shared with me.
Tell him to smile again
In Pleasure's dazzling throng, To wear another's chain,
To praise another's song. Before the loveliest there
I'd have him bend his knee, And breathe to her the prayer
He used to breathe to me.
And tell hin, day by day,
Life looks to me more dim; I falter when I pray,
Although I pray for him.
And bid him when I die,
Come to our favourite tree;
Then let him sigh for me!
Coined rhymes for all who choose to seek 'em,
Or Chitty was my vade mecum,
With the deep lines, that well become it,
Cold as Mont Blanc's snow-covered summit-
Were steadier and somewhat brisker,
And long before I wore a whisker,
Or bought Havannas by the dozen,
She was an angel-hem—my cousin.
Cast back on memory's shorthand record,
Life's future page will be so checkered !
Her lofty brow_her curls of raven,
Its lightnings flashing from their heaven.