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156

SONGS OF FASHIONABLE LIFE.

NOT GO TO TOWN THIS SPRING, PAPA!

I

“Not go to town this spring, Papa! Mama! not go to town!
I never knew you so unkind, you chill me with that frown;
Pray, Mama, indulge your pet, entreat Papa to go;
Ah! now I see that you're in tears, we shall succeed I know!”

II

“Alas! my child, I've done my best, and argued all day long;
But men are always obstinate, especially when wrong.
'Tis for my girl I urge the trip, not for myself, alas!
But when I married had I known—no matter, let that pass!”

III

“My dear, you know that I abhor these silly discontents;
You're quite absurd, why don't you make the people pay their rents?
I can't afford a house in town, nay, don't put on that sneer,
For once be happy where you are, we'll go to town next year.”

IV

“Your conduct, Sir, is most absurd, we went last year in June,
But Fanny really had no chance, you took us home so soon:
Sir Charles was evidently struck, I'm sure he would have popp'd,
But then he saw no more of us, and so the matter dropt.”
157

V

“Of course my dear! you stay with us?”—“No, darling, no, not so,
My duties parliamentary, force me alas! to go.”
“You can't afford a house in town!”—“No, sweetest! there's the rub;
For I shall sleep at Batt's you know, and dine, love! at the club.”

VI

“The club! I hate that odious word, the bane of wedded life,
For well the roving husband fares, no matter how the wife!
And then the thing's a vile excuse, which we must take perforce,
‘Where have you been this afternoon?’ Oh! at the club of course!”

VII

“Why rail at clubs, dear Mistress G. you know I never play,
I only meet some college friends and spend a quiet day;
For when at home I nothing hear, but parties, dress, and balls,
Except it's when you scold the maids, or Fanny thrums and squalls.”

VIII

“I hate all clubs! but I abhor the Athenæum most.
They ask the ladies We'nesday nights! it's all a braggart boast:
To shew their gilt and or-molu, each anxious member strives,
And seems to say, snug quarters these, what do we want with wives?”

IX

“Come, dearest Fanny, dry your eyes, a leetle rouge put on;
I'll order you a sweet chapeau from Maradon Carson,
The races and the archeries will very soon be here,
Come, dearest! you shall not be vex'd, we will go to town next year.”
158

THE ARCHERY MEETING.

I

The archery meeting is fixed for the third;
The fuss that it causes is truly absurd;
I've bought summer bonnets for Rosa and Bess,
And now I must buy each an archery dress!
Without a green suit they would blush to be seen,
And poor little Rosa looks horrid in green!

II

Poor fat little Rosa! she's shooting all day!
She sends forth an arrow expertly they say;
But 'tis terrible when with exertion she warms,
And she seems to me getting such muscular arms;
And if she should hit, 'twere as well if she missed it,
Prize bracelets could never be clasp'd on her wrist!

III

Dear Bess with her elegant figure and face,
Looks quite a Diana, the queen of the place;
But as for the shooting—she never takes aim;
She talks so, and laughs so! the beaux are to blame:
She doats on flirtation—but oh! by the bye,
'Twas awkward her shooting out Mrs. Flint's eye!

IV

They've made my poor husband an archer elect;
He dresses the part with prodigious effect;
A pair of nankeens, with a belt round his waist,
And a quiver of course in which arrows are placed;
And a bow in his hand—oh! he looks of all things
Like a corpulent Cupid bereft of his wings!

V

They dance on the lawn, and we mothers, alas!
Must sit on camp stools with our feet in the grass;
My Flora and Bessy no partners attract!
The Archery men are all cross Beaux in fact!
Among the young Ladies some hits there may be,
But still at my elbow two misses I see!
159

I'M JUST EIGHTEEN, AND QUITE A MAN.

I

I'm just eighteen, and quite a man, I'm no Etonian now;
Don't call me boy! such liberties I never will allow,
One's own relations bore one so; when we go out to dine,
I wish my mother would not say “John, don't take too much wine.”

II

My face is smooth, but bear's grease brings mustachios and a tuft;
I know my figure's rather slight, but then my coat is stuff'd;
My legs are long, and if they are as straight as my father's staff,
In black cloth trousers what's the use of having any calf?

III

Said Lady Trippet when she asked my mother to her ball,
If your young people are at home, I beg you'll bring them all,
The odious term included me! I'll stay at home, I vow.
“Young people” means the boys and girls, I'm no young person now.

IV

My sister Kate in confidence has told me that Miss King
Has raved about me, ever since she saw me in the spring;
Poor girl! I must contrive to be less pleasant if I can,
And Kate must tell her candidly I'm not a marrying man.

FOR FIFTEEN SPRINGS I HAVE BEEN OUT.

I

For fifteen springs I have been out, and I am thirty-three!
I never get proposals now, what can the reason be?
All strangers guess me twenty one and praise me to the skies,
Because I have such pearly teeth and animated eyes.
160

II

Would none but strangers saw me now! Alas it is my lot
To dwell where I have always dwelt, half rooted to the spot!
Children who shared my childish sports have children of their own,
And brats I once look'd down upon, are men and women grown!

III

Last week a gallant son of Mars invited me to dance:
We laughed, we talked! I really thought once more I had a chance!
At length he said “My dear Miss Smith, you don't remember me!
I'm William Jones, twelve years ago, you danced me on your knee!”

IV

When fashionably dress'd, some friend exclaims “Miss Smith I know
You must remember sleeves like these, at least ten years ago.”
The sweetest fruit is that which hangs the longest on the tree,
For fifteeen springs I have been out, and I am thirty three!

WHAT IS LONDON'S LAST NEW LION?

I

What is London's last new lion? Pray inform me if you can;
Is't a woman of Kamschatka or an Otaheite man?
For my conversazione, you must send me something new,
Don't forget me! Oh I sigh for the éclat of a début!

II

I am sick of all the “minstrels,” all the “brothers” this and that;
Who sing sweetly at the parties, while the ladies laugh and chat;
And the man who play'd upon his chin is passé I suppose,
So try and find a gentleman who plays upon his nose.
161

III

Send half a dozen authors, for they help to fill a rout,
I fear I've worn the literary lionesses out!
Send something biographical, I think that fashion spreads,
But do not send a poet, till you find one with two heads.

IV

The town has grown fastidious; we do not care a straw
For the whiskers of a bandit, or the tail of a bashaw!
And travellers are out of date, I mean to cut them soon,
Unless you send me some one who has travell'd to the moon.

V

Oh! if you send a singer, he must sing without a throat!
Oh! if you send a player, he must harp upon one note!
I must have something marvellous, the marvel makes the man;
What is London's last new lion? pray inform me if you can.

THE LAST MAN OF THE SEASON.

I

Behold the last man of the season
Left pacing the park all alone,
He'll blush if you ask him the reason,
Why he with the rest is not gone?
He'll see you with shame and with sorrow,
He'll smile with affected delight;
He'll swear he leaves London to-morrow,
And only came to it last night!

II

He'll tell you that nobles select him
To cheer their romantic retreats,
That friends from all quarters expect him
To stay at their elegant seats.
Invited by all, then, how can he know
Which he should favour or shun;
He's sure of offending so many,
By paying a visit to one.
162

III

He'll say that the Yacht Club implore him
To cruise in their exquisite ships:
That ladies of fashion quite bore him
To join in their wandering trips:
That stewards of all races entreat him
To go to them; what can he do?
So odd you should happen to meet him,
So strange as he's just passing through.

IV

In town, in the month of September,
We find neither riches nor rank;
In vain we look out for a member
To give us a nod or a frank.
Each knocker in silence reposes,
In every mansion you find
One dirty old woman who dozes,
Or peeps through the dining-room blind!

V

Then hence, thou last man of the season;
Lest fashion the outrage should blab!
Shrink back as if guilty of treason
Within the dark depths of thy cab.
If money be wanting, go borrow,
Remain—and thy character's lost!
Go print thy departure to-morrow:
“Sir Linger from Longs to the coast!”
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