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

I see him not, the man is gone!
The man who watched my carriage;
Oh! while I linger'd last but one,
There still seem'd hopes of marriage.
He too is off! alone I pine,
A sad condition mine is,
'Tis very odd that one so fine,
Should now prove fashion's finis.

The desert Park! there is no show
Of dames in silks that rustle;
I look upon no titled beau,
No beauty, and no bustle!
Yet madly still that Park I seek,
('Twere far more wise to shun it.)
Deep rouge upon my maiden cheek,
Deep blonde upon my bonnet.

My foot attracts not as I go
One glance unto my liking;
Though on my stockings, white as snow,
The coloured clocks are striking.

Spring flow'rs are gone, and autumn leaves
Will strew my path hereafter,
I laugh not—even in my sleeves,
Though they seem made for laughter.

The streets are thin, the squares are dull,
The crowded hubbub ceases,
And nothing now can be made full,
But dresses and pelisses.
Oh, Art! thine adventitious aid
Is vain,—I ne'er approach man;
I'm seen by no one but my maid,
My pretty page, and coachman.

And there's another bore! my page
Is growing out of season;
He's such a gawky for his age,
I can't think what's the reason.
I knew 'twas comme il faut in green
The stripling to accoutre;
But now, though he's but just fifteen,
He looks like a sharpshooter.

For scenes, where others rove, I fret,
And then to cheer my own eye,
A private box of mignonette
I place on my balcony.
Macadam frustrates these pursuits,
The noise without he trebles;
He tears the street up by the roots,
And pounds it into pebbles.

To be kept here so late, I vow,
In tears of sorrow steeps me;
The shopkeepers who see me now
Are wondering what keeps me!
I must contrive some moving plan,
Or life I cannot drag on;
I'll send my hat by Pickford's van,
My bonnet by the waggon.

Winged wardrobes every lady wants
To waft her dresses neatly.
My vapeur crape with séduisantes
Will fill the boot completely.

The imperial will hold my slip,
(My maid shall pack it, poor thing!)
The Morning Post shall print my trip,
“Miss Crawl, from Batts' to Worthing.”