 | Select poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed (1909) |  |
152
ONE MORE QUADRILLE
Not yet, not yet; it's hardly four;
Not yet; we'll send the chair away;
Mirth still has many smiles in store,
And love has fifty things to say.
Long leagues the weary Sun must drive,
Ere pant his hot steeds o'er the hill;
The merry stars will dance till five;
One more quadrille,—one more quadrille!
Not yet; we'll send the chair away;
Mirth still has many smiles in store,
And love has fifty things to say.
Long leagues the weary Sun must drive,
Ere pant his hot steeds o'er the hill;
The merry stars will dance till five;
One more quadrille,—one more quadrille!
'Tis only thus, 'tis only here
That maids and minstrels may forget
The myriad ills they feel or fear,
Ennui, taxation, cholera, debt;
With daylight busy cares and schemes
Will come again to chafe or chill;
This is the fairy land of dreams;
One more quadrille,—one more quadrille!
That maids and minstrels may forget
The myriad ills they feel or fear,
Ennui, taxation, cholera, debt;
153
Will come again to chafe or chill;
This is the fairy land of dreams;
One more quadrille,—one more quadrille!
What tricks the French in Paris play,
And what the Austrians are about,
And whether that tall knave, Lord Grey,
Is staying in, or going out;
And what the House of Lords will do,
At last, with that eternal Bill,
I do not care a rush,—do you?
One more quadrille,—one more quadrille!
And what the Austrians are about,
And whether that tall knave, Lord Grey,
Is staying in, or going out;
And what the House of Lords will do,
At last, with that eternal Bill,
I do not care a rush,—do you?
One more quadrille,—one more quadrille!
My book don't sell, my play don't draw,
My garden gives me only weeds;
And Mr. Quirk has found a flaw—
Deuce take him—in my title-deeds;
My Aunt has scratched her nephew's name
From that sweet corner in her will;
My dog is dead, my horse is lame;
One more quadrille,—one more quadrille!
My garden gives me only weeds;
And Mr. Quirk has found a flaw—
Deuce take him—in my title-deeds;
My Aunt has scratched her nephew's name
From that sweet corner in her will;
My dog is dead, my horse is lame;
One more quadrille,—one more quadrille!
Not yet, not yet; it is not late;
Don't whisper it to sister Jane;
Your brother, I am sure, will wait;
Papa will go to cards again.
Not yet, not yet. Your eyes are bright,
Your step is like a wood-nymph's, still.
Oh no, you can't be tired, to-night!
One more quadrille,—one more quadrille!
Don't whisper it to sister Jane;
Your brother, I am sure, will wait;
Papa will go to cards again.
Not yet, not yet. Your eyes are bright,
Your step is like a wood-nymph's, still.
Oh no, you can't be tired, to-night!
One more quadrille,—one more quadrille!
| Select poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed (1909) | |