 | The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury |  |
261
“TOUJOURS PERDRIX.”
THE LAMENT OF A MAN ABOUT TOWN.
I'm sick of balls, soirees, and parties,
And long from such scenes to be free;
Flirtation, I own, is quite pleasant,
But I'm weary of “toujours perdrix.”
And long from such scenes to be free;
Flirtation, I own, is quite pleasant,
But I'm weary of “toujours perdrix.”
I go to a wedding on Monday,
White satin and blushes I see;
A blue-coated groomsman is carving
The bride-cake—still, “toujours perdrix.”
White satin and blushes I see;
A blue-coated groomsman is carving
The bride-cake—still, “toujours perdrix.”
On Tuesday a party awaits me;
Oysters pickled and stewed there may be,
With champagne and creams for the ladies,
But still it is “toujours perdrix.”
Oysters pickled and stewed there may be,
With champagne and creams for the ladies,
But still it is “toujours perdrix.”
A soiree comes next; 'tis the banquet
Of reason, not sense; so you see
We have little to eat, but the folly
And flirting are “toujours perdrix.”
Of reason, not sense; so you see
We have little to eat, but the folly
And flirting are “toujours perdrix.”
I go to a ball, and much marvel
To see with what infinite glee
The dancers enjoy the dull music
Which I've heard till 'tis “toujours perdrix.”
To see with what infinite glee
The dancers enjoy the dull music
Which I've heard till 'tis “toujours perdrix.”
I'll post to the country, and bury
My vexation beneath some old tree,
And try whether life in the wildwoods
Can ever be “toujours perdrix.”
My vexation beneath some old tree,
262
Can ever be “toujours perdrix.”
I'll flirt with some fair country maiden
(To woman's heart I have a key),
And try whether rustic flirtation
Like the city's is “toujours perdrix.”
(To woman's heart I have a key),
And try whether rustic flirtation
Like the city's is “toujours perdrix.”
[OMITTED]
I've tried the experiment fairly—
No more rural pleasures for me;
Give me back the refinement of cities,
E'en though it be “toujours perdrix.”
No more rural pleasures for me;
Give me back the refinement of cities,
E'en though it be “toujours perdrix.”
The sun in the country has baked me;
From dust not a pathway is free;
The milkmaids are horribly freckled,
And as wild as if all were “perdrix.”
From dust not a pathway is free;
The milkmaids are horribly freckled,
And as wild as if all were “perdrix.”
If I must eat of one dish forever,
And no longer a novelty see,
Why, rather than greens and fat bacon,
I think I like “toujours perdrix.”
And no longer a novelty see,
Why, rather than greens and fat bacon,
I think I like “toujours perdrix.”
| The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury | |