Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Away with Nature's melodies,
Her roses lack variety,
Her smiles may suit the Hor-
Ticultural Society:
I sing of artificial life,
Where pleasure drains her chalices,
Where fashion cuts out petticoats,
And architecture palaces.

II

Away with brooks, and hooks, and crooks,
Your Phœbes and your Phillises;
The brain-struck bard who doats upon
Each cataract and hill he sees.
In winter time to be sublime,
My city muse embarrasses;
So she shall sing the picturesque,
Of villas and of terraces.

III

Each symptom of the season makes
A London man revive again;
With joy he sees the busy bees
Inhabiting the hive again.
He leaves his cards and kind regards;
Those little sweet formalities,
Expected by all those who show
Their entertaining qualities.

139

IV

He quits the club, the joint concern,
The pigmy tart and sallad, he
Resigns the cruet of white wine,
For warmer hospitality.
And when he sees the plenteous meal,
He well may wonder any one
Could live so many months upon
A four and twenty-penny one.

THIS IS MY ELDEST DAUGHTER, SIR.

I

This is my eldest daughter, Sir,
Her mother's only care;
You praise her face—Oh! Sir, she is,
As good as she is fair.
My angel Jane is clever too,
Accomplishments I've taught her;
I'll introduce you to her, Sir,
This is my eldest daughter.

II

I've sought the aid of ornament,
Bejewelling her curls;
I've tried her beauty unadorn'd,
Simplicity, and pearls:
I've set her off, to get her off,
Till fallen off I've thought her;
Yet I've softly breath'd to all the Beaux,
“This is my eldest daughter.”

III

I've tried all styles of hair dressing,
Madonnas, frizzes, crops,
Her waist I've lac'd, her back I've brac'd,
Till circulation stops:

140

I've padded her, until I have
Into a Venus brought her,
But puffing her has no effect,
This is my eldest daughter.

IV

Her gowns are à la Ackermann,
Her corsets à la Bell;
Yet when the season ends, each beau,
Still leaves his T. T. L.
I patronize each Déjeûné,
Each party on the water;
Yet still she hangs upon my arm!
This is my eldest daughter.

V

She did refuse a gentleman,—
(I own it was absurd,)
She thought she ought to answer No!
He took her at her word!
But she'd say yes if any one
That's eligible sought her;
She really is a charming girl,
Though she's my eldest daughter.

LORD HARRY HAS WRITTEN A NOVEL.

I

Lord Harry has written a Novel,
A story of elegant life;
No stuff about love in a hovel,
No sketch of a commoner's wife:
No trash such as pathos and passion,
Fine feelings, expression, and wit;
But all about people of fashion,
Come look at his caps, how they fit

141

II

Oh! Radcliffe! thou once wert the charmer,
Of girls who sat reading all night;
Thy heroes were striplings in armour,
Thy heroines damsels in white.
But past are thy terrible touches,
Our lips in derision we curl,
Unless we are told how a Duchess,
Convers'd with her cousin the Earl.

III

We now have each dialogue quite full
Of titles—“I give you my word,
My lady you're looking delightful,”
“Oh! dear, do you think so, my Lord!”
“You've heard of the Marquis's marriage,
The bride with her jewels new set,
Four horses, new travelling carriage,
And déjeûné à la fourchette.”

IV

Haut Ton finds her privacy broken,
We trace all her inns and her outs;
The very small talk that is spoken,
By very great people at routs.
At Tenby Miss Jinks asks the loan of
The book from the Innkeeper's wife,
And reads till she dreams she is one of
The leaders of elegant life.

MY WIFE IS VERY MUSICAL.

I

My wife is very musical,
She tunes it over much;
And teazes me with what they call
Her fingering and touch.
She's Instrumental to my pain:
Her very Broadwood quakes!
Her vocal efforts split my brain,
I shiver when she shakes!

142

II

She tells me, with the greatest ease,
Her voice goes up to C,
And proves it, till her melodies,
Are maladies to me.
She's “Isabelling” if I stir,
From where my books lie hid;
Or, “Oh! no we never mention her;”
I wish she never did!

III

Her newest turns turn out to be,
The same we heard last year;
Alas! there's no variety,
In variations here:
I see her puff, I see her pant,
Through ditties wild and strange;
I wish she'd change her notes, they want
Some silver and some change.

I MUST COME OUT NEXT SPRING, MAMA.

I

I must come out next spring, Mama,
I must come out next spring;
To keep me with my governess,
Would be a cruel thing.
Whene'er I view my sisters dress'd,
In leno and in lace,
Miss Twig's apartment seems to be
A miserable place.
I must come out next spring, Mama, &c.

II

I'm very sick of Grosvenor Square,
The path within the rails;
I'm weary of Telemachus,
And such outlandish tales:

143

I hate my French—my vile Chambaud,
In tears I've turn'd his leaves;
Oh! let me Frenchify my hair,
And take to gigot sleeves.
I must come out next spring, Mama, &c.

III

I know quite well what I would say
To partners at a ball;
I've got a pretty speech or two,
And they would serve for all.
If an Hussar,—I'd praise his horse,
And win a smile from him;
And if a naval man, I'd lisp,
“Pray, Captain, do you swim?”
I must come out next spring, Mama, &c.

MY HUSBAND MEANS EXTREMELY WELL.

I

My husband means well,
Good, honest, humdrum man;
And really I can hardly tell,
How first our feuds began.
It was a match of my Mama's,
No match at all, I mean,
Unless declining fifty has
One feature like fifteen.

II

I long'd to leave the prosing set,
Papa, and durance vile,
I long'd to have a landaulet,
And four neat greys in style:
Sir William's steeds were thorough bred,
He wooed me fourteen days,
And I consented, though his head
Was greyer than his greys.

144

III

For, Oh! I pin'd for pineries,
Plate, pin-money, and pearls;
For smiles from Royal Highnesses,
Dukes, Marquisses, and Earls.
Sir William was in Parliament,
And noticed by the King,
So when he made his settlement,
It was a settled thing.

IV

He grumbles now! a woman's whim
Turns night to day, he says,
As if he thought I'd sit with him,
Benighting all my days!
At six he rises, as for me,
At twelve I ring my bell;
Thus we're wound up alternately,
Like buckets in a well.

AWAY WITH THE DAYLIGHT.

I

Away with the daylight, illumine the gas!
The moments of morning too languidly pass;
'Tis only at sunset we find out the worth
Of stars in the Heavens, and eyes upon earth!
Then away with the daylight, &c.

II

You blame me for keeping late hours; oh! fie;
They all become late ones when they are gone by:
And all sorts of hours fly from us so fast,
I'm resolved I will keep them,—as long as they'll last.
Then away with the daylight, &c.

145

III

Late hours! oh! for shame! you're a sluggard to me:
You were stirring at six, I was dancing at three.
Talk of rising with larks! 'tis far better, I say,
For a lark when 'tis dark to go roving away.
Then away with the daylight, &c.

THE MEN ARE ALL CLUBBING TOGETHER.

I

The men are all clubbing together,
Abandoning gentle pursuits,
They revel with birds of a feather,
And dine in black neck-cloths and boots.
They've no party spirit about them,
(My parties are stupid concerns,)
The ladies sit sulky without them,
Or dance with each other by turns.

II

Oh! where are the dandies who flirted,
Who came of a morning to call?
We females are so disconcerted,
I'd fee males to come to my ball!
'Twas flattery charm'd us—no matter,
Paste often may pass for a gem;
Alas! we are duller and flatter,
Than when we're flatter'd by them.

III

When family dinners we're giving,
They send an excuse,—there's the rub:
Each gourmand, secure of good living,
Like Hercules, leans on his club.
A hermit, though beauty invites him,
Alone at the Union he sits,
But what is the fare that delights him
Compar'd with the fair that he quits?

146

IN THE DAYS OF MY GREAT GRANDMAMA.

I

In the days of my great Grandmama, I've been told,
There were persons of fashion and taste,
Who, in dresses as stout as chain armour of old,
The parties of Ranelagh grac'd.
How high were their heads, and how high were their heels,
And how high were their notions and ways!
They mov'd in propriety's round like the wheels
Of a warranted watch, in the days
Of my great Grandmama!

II

Fashion then was so dull you could scarcely discern
The minute ebb and flow of her tides:
And a dowager's dress, though unturn'd, serv'd in turn
Three or four generations of brides.
Like the family jewels, the family gown
Was reserv'd for their Gala displays,
And a ruffled old lady look'd placidly down
Upon ruffled young girls, in the days
Of my great Grandmama!

III

Oh! the men, who for these female paragons sigh'd,
Were unlike those who pester us now;
They approach'd with a smile, and a sink, and a slide,
And a minuet step and a bow.
They were lac'd and embroider'd, and powder'd, and curl'd,
Like the men that we see in the plays;
And 'tis certain there's nothing so grand in the world,
Or so sweet as there was in the days
Of my great Grandmama!

147

OH! LET NOT YOUR PASSION FOR MARY THE MAID.

I

Oh! let not your passion for Mary the maid,
Cause you, my Lord Harry, to blush;
When beauty ennobles, immediately fade
Birth, parentage, duster, and brush.
E'en pride from her presence shall never recoil,
Her smiles all impediments soften,
And who is more likely to make the pot boil
Than she who has boil'd it so often?

II

Then throw by your gun, it might worry her nerves,
As she settles her sweets on the shelf;
And why should you shoot on a neighbour's preserves,
When she's making preserves for yourself:
She will prove to you soon, if you raise her aloft,
She is worthy the warmest of lovers!
She will superintend all your courses, and oft
Give new zest to the scent of your covers.

III

Regard not her frown—you may penetrate stone,
By the dripping of water they say;
Take courage, your pretty plain cook is not one
On whom dripping can be thrown away.
You shrink from nobility's daughter who loves
To freeze you with manners majestic,
And your choice of a partner for life only proves
That your habits are strictly domestic.

148

AT HOME.

I

Invitations I will write,
All the world I will invite.
I will deign to show civility,
To the tip tops of gentility;
To the cream of the nobility,
I'm “at home” next Monday night.

II

See my footman, how he runs!
Ev'ry paltry street he shuns,
I'm “at home” to peers and peeresses,
Who reside in squares and terraces,
I'm “at home” to heirs and heiresses,
And, of course, to eldest sons.

III

I'm “at home” to all the set,
Of exclusives I have met.
If a rival open has her doors,
All the coronets shall pass her doors,
I'm “at home” to the Ambassadors,
Though their names I quite forgot.

IV

I'm “at home” to guardsmen all,
Be they short, or be they tall;
I'm “at home” to men political,
Poetical and critical,
And the punning men of wit, I call
Acquisitions at a ball.

V

Oh! the matchless Collinet,
On his flageolet shall play;
How I love to hear the thrill of it!
Pasta's song think what she will of it,
He will make a quick quadrille of it,
“Dove sono,”—dance away.

149

NOT AT HOME.

I

Not at home! not at home! close my curtain again,
Go and send the intruders away;
They may knock if they will, but 'tis labour in vain,
For I am not made up for the day.
Though my ball was the best of all possible balls,
Though I graced my saloon like a Queen;
I've a head-ache to-day, so if any one calls,
“Not at home!” I am not to be seen.

II

Not at home! not at home! bring strong coffee at two,
But now leave me to doze in the dark;
I'm too pale for my pink! I'm too brown for my blue,
I'm too sick for my drive in the park.
If the man whose attentions are pointed should call,
(Eliza, you know who I mean,)
Oh! say, when he knocks, I'm knock'd up by my ball,
“Not at home!” I am not to be seen.

III

Not at home to Sir John, not at home to the Count,
Not at home till my ringlets are curl'd;
Should the Jeweller call with his little account,
Not at home! not at home for the world!
I, at midnight must shine at three splendid “at homes,”
Then adieu to my morning chagrin,
Close my curtain again, for till candle-light comes,
“Not at home!” I am not to be seen.