| |
| AT Cheltenham, where one drinks one’s fill | |
| Of folly and cold water, | |
| I danced, last year, my first quadrille | |
| With old Sir Geoffrey’s daughter. | |
| Her cheek with summer’s rose might vie, | 5 |
| When summer’s rose is newest; | |
| Her eyes were blue as autumn’s sky, | |
| When autumn’s sky is bluest; | |
| And well my heart might deem her one | |
| Of life’s most precious flowers, | 10 |
| For half her thoughts were of its sun, | |
| And half were of its showers. | |
| |
| I spoke of novels: “Vivian Gray” | |
| Was positively charming, | |
| And “Almack’s” infinitely gay, | 15 |
| 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”; | 20 |
| I vowed the last new thing of Hook’s | |
| Was vastly entertaining; | |
| And Laura said, “I dote on books, | |
| Because it’s always raining!” | |
| |
| I talked of music’s gorgeous fane, | 25 |
| I raved about Rossini, | |
| Hoped Ronzo would come back again, | |
| And criticised Paccini; | |
| I wished the chorus singers dumb, | |
| The trumpets more pacific, | 30 |
| And eulogised Brocard’s aplomb | |
| And voted Paul “terrific.” | |
| What cared she for Medea’s pride | |
| Or Desdemona’s sorrow? | |
| “Alas!” my beauteous listener sighed, | 35 |
| “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; | 40 |
| 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, | 45 |
| 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; | 50 |
| 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, | 55 |
| And Anna her false lover; | |
| How Lord de B. and Mrs. L. | |
| Had crossed the sea together; | |
| My shuddering partner cried, “Oh, Lord! | |
| How could they, in such weather?” | 60 |
| |
| Was she a blue? I put my trust | |
| In strata, petals, gases; | |
| A boudoir pedant? I discussed | |
| The toga and the fasces; | |
| A Cockney muse? I mouthed a deal | 65 |
| Of folly from Endymion; | |
| A saint? I praised the pious zeal | |
| Of Messrs. Way and Simeon; | |
| A politician? It was vain | |
| To quote the morning paper. | 70 |
| The horrid phantoms come again: | |
| Rain, hail, and snow, and vapour. | |
| |
| Flat flattery was my only chance, | |
| I acted deep devotion, | |
| Found magic in her every glance, | 75 |
| Grace in her every motion; | |
| I wasted all a stripling’s lore, | |
| Prayer, passion, folly, feeling; | |
| And wildly looked upon the floor, | |
| And wildly on the ceiling; | 80 |
| I envied gloves upon her arm, | |
| And shawls upon her shoulder; | |
| And when my worship was most warm, | |
| She “never found it colder.” | |
| |
| I don’t object to wealth or land; | 85 |
| And she will have the giving | |
| Of an extremely pretty hand, | |
| Some thousands, and a living. | |
| She makes silk purses, broiders stools, | |
| Sings sweetly, dances finely, | 90 |
| Paints screens, subscribes to Sunday-schools, | |
| And sits a horse divinely. | |
| But to be linked for life to her! | |
| The desperate man who tried it, | |
| Might marry a barometer, | 95 |
| And hang himself beside it! | |
| |
