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.
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!”
