 | Twelve wongs written at Boulogne-Sur-Mer |  |
1
Twelve Songs WRITTEN AT BOULOGNE-SUR-MER.
THE HEART IS NOT YET BROKEN!
The heart is not yet broken!
The harp not yet unstrung!
“Despair!” hath not been spoken,
Though trembling on my tongue!
Though Fate hath now bereft me
Of blessings—past recall;
I mourn not, she hath left me
Thy love, more dear than all!
The harp not yet unstrung!
“Despair!” hath not been spoken,
Though trembling on my tongue!
Though Fate hath now bereft me
Of blessings—past recall;
I mourn not, she hath left me
Thy love, more dear than all!
My heart too well remembers
My boyhood's home of mirth,
Methinks I see the embers
Still blazing on the hearth!
My song of youth—I hear it
Still echo thro' the hall!
'Tis gone—but I can bear it!
Thy love atones for all!
My boyhood's home of mirth,
Methinks I see the embers
Still blazing on the hearth!
My song of youth—I hear it
Still echo thro' the hall!
'Tis gone—but I can bear it!
Thy love atones for all!
A stranger owns the meadow,
The scene of sportive plays,
The trees, beneath whose shadow
I pass'd bright summer days:
O'er fond hopes crush'd so early
Some secret tears must fall—
But loving thee so dearly,
Thy love atones for all.
The scene of sportive plays,
The trees, beneath whose shadow
I pass'd bright summer days:
O'er fond hopes crush'd so early
Some secret tears must fall—
But loving thee so dearly,
Thy love atones for all.
Boulogne, December 18th 1831.
55
FASHIONABLE ECLOGUES
162
No. II.
[Comes, Charles! another glass, my boy!]
Scene.—Junior United Service Club.Captain Biggs and Lieutenant Wilkins.
Captain.
Comes, Charles! another glass, my boy!
I've gain'd my end, my point is carried;
One bumper more to wish me joy—
When next we meet I shall be married;
I knew you'd stare—but can you guess
Who is the object of my passion?
Oh! she's the pink of loveliness,
The very paragon of fashion!
I've gain'd my end, my point is carried;
One bumper more to wish me joy—
When next we meet I shall be married;
I knew you'd stare—but can you guess
Who is the object of my passion?
Oh! she's the pink of loveliness,
The very paragon of fashion!
Nay, do not try—you'll guess in vain—
And yet, upon consideration,
I own the case is pretty plain,
You must have noticed the flirtation.
'Tis Fanny Miles! the reigning belle!
The all-accomplish'd, pretty Fanny!
You must confess I've managed well,
To win a prize sought by so many.
And yet, upon consideration,
I own the case is pretty plain,
You must have noticed the flirtation.
'Tis Fanny Miles! the reigning belle!
The all-accomplish'd, pretty Fanny!
You must confess I've managed well,
To win a prize sought by so many.
Lieutenant.
I am surprised, I must allow,
I thought the girl was too capricious.
Captain.
Nay, nay, she never loved till now.
Lieutenant.
Well—but the mother's so ambitious,
163
And now and then is disconcerted
By chilling slights, and such rebukes
As glasses raised, or eyes averted.
Captain.
That may be over-anxious zeal,
To elevate her only daughter;
You cannot feel as mothers feel.
Lieutenant.
No—but the girl—you're sure you've caught her?
You think she loves you?
Captain.
Think she loves!
How can you ask so cold a question,
Her pallid cheek her passion proves—
Lieutenant.
Pooh! that may all be indigestion!
Captain.
Oh! do not jest—she doats on me,
There ne'er was woman so devoted.
Lieutenant.
Since she came out—stop—let me see,—
On one—two—three—four—five she's doated.
Her dotage may pass off.
Captain.
You wrong
The kindest of all earthly creatures!
Did frailty ever yet belong
To such a set of faultless features!
164
A patient listener entreating,
I'll say how, when, and where we met,
And all that happen'd at the meeting.
It was at Almack's; she had got
One ticket, and she begg'd another;
But Lady C. declared she'd not
For worlds admit the humdrum mother.
Lieutenant.
And yet the daughter went!
Captain.
Oh yes!—
You know—that is—what should prevent her?
Lieutenant.
If 'gainst my parent, I confess,
A door were shut, I'd scorn to enter.
Captain.
One ticket came—how could it please
Maternal feelings not to use it?
A ticket for the Duke of D.'s—
Or even Almack's—who'd refuse it?
Lieutenant.
Are girls so mean! Well, well—proceed.
She went, it seems—and there you met her?
Captain.
We met—we waltzed—and we agreed
To met again—could I forget her?
I call'd next day, and Mr. Miles,
And Mrs. Miles, seem'd charm'd to know me,
Contributing with many smiles
Each kind attention they could show me:
And I was ask'd to dine and sup,
And cards for balls were never wanting;
The carriage came and took me up—
We went together, t'was enchanting!
I saw at once it was their aim
That she and I should be united,
For every morning when I came
To something gay I was invited.
To met again—could I forget her?
I call'd next day, and Mr. Miles,
And Mrs. Miles, seem'd charm'd to know me,
Contributing with many smiles
Each kind attention they could show me:
165
And cards for balls were never wanting;
The carriage came and took me up—
We went together, t'was enchanting!
I saw at once it was their aim
That she and I should be united,
For every morning when I came
To something gay I was invited.
In purchases, she sought my taste—
Where 'er we went, 'twas I escorted—
In gallopades, I held her waist—
In morning walks, my arm supported.
I saw the time was come, in fact,
When honour bade me to disclose all,
So in the Opera's last act,
Last night—I whisper'd a proposal!
Where 'er we went, 'twas I escorted—
In gallopades, I held her waist—
In morning walks, my arm supported.
I saw the time was come, in fact,
When honour bade me to disclose all,
So in the Opera's last act,
Last night—I whisper'd a proposal!
Lieutenant.
And what said Fanny?
Captain.
Oh! she sigh'd—
And raised her fan a blush to smother;
I gently breathed, “Oh! with what pride
Shall I present you to my brother.”
She started—(timid pet!) the word
Was premature—the thought a bad one:
“Brother!” she said; “I never heard—
You never mention'd that you had one.”
And raised her fan a blush to smother;
I gently breathed, “Oh! with what pride
Shall I present you to my brother.”
She started—(timid pet!) the word
Was premature—the thought a bad one:
“Brother!” she said; “I never heard—
You never mention'd that you had one.”
“My elder brother!” I exclaim'd—
She turn'd away—(sweet bashful creature!
To hear her future brother named,
No doubt had crimson'd ev'ry feature.)
Then pleading earnestly I stood;
With half-averted face she heard me,
And answer'd “Sir—you're—very—good—”
But to her “dear mamma” referr'd me.
She turn'd away—(sweet bashful creature!
To hear her future brother named,
No doubt had crimson'd ev'ry feature.)
166
With half-averted face she heard me,
And answer'd “Sir—you're—very—good—”
But to her “dear mamma” referr'd me.
I hurried home, and quickly wrote,
As 'twere with wand of necromancer;
To Mrs. Miles I sent the note,
And now I'm waiting for the answer.
As 'twere with wand of necromancer;
To Mrs. Miles I sent the note,
And now I'm waiting for the answer.
Lieutenant.
Sit down, my friend—don't fidget so—
Those men at breakfast will observe us—
Sit down, I beg of you—
Captain.
Oh! no,
I really can't, I am so nervous.
Ha! what is this!—a note for me!
'Tis it!—“No answer” did the man say?—
Now them my longing eyes will see
All that sincere affection can say!
(reads)
I really can't, I am so nervous.
Ha! what is this!—a note for me!
'Tis it!—“No answer” did the man say?—
Now them my longing eyes will see
All that sincere affection can say!
“Sir—your obliging note—high sense—
My daughter has—of the great honour—
Of good opinion—preference—”
There, my boy!—there—'tis plain I've won her!
(reads again)
My daughter has—of the great honour—
Of good opinion—preference—”
There, my boy!—there—'tis plain I've won her!
“But—you're a younger brother, Sir!
And I must say—you will excuse it—
You were to blame to think of her—
And your proposal—must refuse it.
And I must say—you will excuse it—
You were to blame to think of her—
And your proposal—must refuse it.
“I think it best to add at once,
That in declining your acquintance—”
I'll read no more!—Oh, idiot! dunce!—
How shall I bear this cruel sentence!
That in declining your acquintance—”
167
How shall I bear this cruel sentence!
Lieutenant.
Be calm, my friend.
Captain.
Alas! till now
I never knew what blighted hope meant.
Lieutenant.
Be pacified!
Captain.
Ah! tell me how
I best may manage an elopement.
I'll seek a druggist—happy plan!
And I will ask him—
Lieutenant.
Pray be placid!
Captain.
For Epsom crystals—but the man
I'll bribe to give oxalic acid!
Lieutenant.
Nay, seek amusement—it is right.
Captain.
I'll tell my man to load my pistols.
Lieutenant.
Come to the opera to-night—
Captain.
I'll go and buy the fatal crystals.
Lieutenant.
I've got two tickets—'tis a sin
To die despairing—come, my crony!
Captain.
Well—to please you—I'll just drop in
And take one peep at Taglioni.
181
LUNATIC LAYS
EPILOGUE OF The Proof of the Pudding,
BEING A LECTURE ON PUDDINGS.
On all of your minds be this moral imprest:
Say not that your pudding is one of the best,
Until you have tasted—for that is the test.
Say not that your pudding is one of the best,
Until you have tasted—for that is the test.
I'll give—if none here will my efforts disparage,
A lecture on Puddings—and first I'll name Marriage.
Few know how to make it! few deem it expedient
To wait till they've found out each proper ingredient;
And so when for dinner the table is spread,
They have mixed up a mere Hasty pudding instead.
Such puddings, before they are many days old,
Will be rather too hot, or else rather too cold!
But Marriage judiciously made, will be found
Full of sweets, and delectable all the year round!
A Friend is a pudding that many cooks make
So quickly—at last it turns out—a mistake!
At first it may seem like the very thing wish'd,
Yet a coolness comes over'it when it is dish'd.
'Twill keep pretty well while the weather is summery,
But in winter such friendship will turn into Flummery.
But Friendship home made—(and it never is sold)
Is a pudding that never, oh! never grows cold.
The next is the Gambler's pudding! He takes
Some meat to compose it—most probably stakes.
He tosses it up, and still higher and higher,
'Till it falls from the frying pan into the fire.
And so much of the pudding is lost, that at last
He has very few scraps for tomorrow's repast!
The sharper's a sponge cake—and by the same rule,
The Flat that he fleeces, a Gooseberry Fool!
The Soldier's rough bowl must be fill'd to the brim,
Batter pudding in trenches (not trenchers), for him!
The Painter will mix up a pudding that's light;
He thinks of his pallet from morning till night!
The Poet has seldom got pudding enough!
He dines on a trifle, and sups on a puff!
The Ladies are Queen-cakes, each quite a sweet heart,
The Gentlemen—can't be like any thing Tart.
The Heiress's pudding will always seem nice,
And many young men will apply for a slice;
Though ugly and crusty, there still will be some
Who will swear 'tis divine, for the sake of the Plum.
A lecture on Puddings—and first I'll name Marriage.
Few know how to make it! few deem it expedient
To wait till they've found out each proper ingredient;
And so when for dinner the table is spread,
They have mixed up a mere Hasty pudding instead.
Such puddings, before they are many days old,
Will be rather too hot, or else rather too cold!
But Marriage judiciously made, will be found
Full of sweets, and delectable all the year round!
A Friend is a pudding that many cooks make
So quickly—at last it turns out—a mistake!
At first it may seem like the very thing wish'd,
Yet a coolness comes over'it when it is dish'd.
'Twill keep pretty well while the weather is summery,
But in winter such friendship will turn into Flummery.
But Friendship home made—(and it never is sold)
Is a pudding that never, oh! never grows cold.
325
Some meat to compose it—most probably stakes.
He tosses it up, and still higher and higher,
'Till it falls from the frying pan into the fire.
And so much of the pudding is lost, that at last
He has very few scraps for tomorrow's repast!
The sharper's a sponge cake—and by the same rule,
The Flat that he fleeces, a Gooseberry Fool!
The Soldier's rough bowl must be fill'd to the brim,
Batter pudding in trenches (not trenchers), for him!
The Painter will mix up a pudding that's light;
He thinks of his pallet from morning till night!
The Poet has seldom got pudding enough!
He dines on a trifle, and sups on a puff!
The Ladies are Queen-cakes, each quite a sweet heart,
The Gentlemen—can't be like any thing Tart.
The Heiress's pudding will always seem nice,
And many young men will apply for a slice;
Though ugly and crusty, there still will be some
Who will swear 'tis divine, for the sake of the Plum.
The critic—But hold! that word fills me with fear;
I trust we shall find no one critical here!
No, no—I am certain that nobody looks
Unkindly on us—for we're Amateur Cooks.
Though glaring our faults, yet from censure refrain,
If you cut us too roughly—you can't come again!
I trust we shall find no one critical here!
No, no—I am certain that nobody looks
Unkindly on us—for we're Amateur Cooks.
Though glaring our faults, yet from censure refrain,
If you cut us too roughly—you can't come again!
The dish that we gave you to night, was combined
Of English and French, for that reason be kind;
Encourage all cooks whose exertions advance
Kind feelings and friendship 'twixt England and France.
Of English and French, for that reason be kind;
Encourage all cooks whose exertions advance
Kind feelings and friendship 'twixt England and France.
| Twelve wongs written at Boulogne-Sur-Mer | |