I MUST COME OUT NEXT SPRING, MAMA.
I
I must come out next spring, Mama,
I must come out next spring;
To keep me with my governess,
Would be a cruel thing.
Whene'er I view my sisters dress'd,
In leno and in lace,
Miss Twig's apartment seems to be
A miserable place.
I must come out next spring, Mama, &c.
II
I'm very sick of Grosvenor Square,
The path within the rails;
I'm weary of Telemachus,
And such outlandish tales:
I hate my French—my vile Chambaud,
In tears I've turn'd his leaves;
Oh! let me Frenchify my hair,
And take to gigot sleeves.
I must come out next spring, Mama, &c.
III
I know quite well what I would say
To partners at a ball;
I've got a pretty speech or two,
And they would serve for all.
If an Hussar,—I'd praise his horse,
And win a smile from him;
And if a naval man, I'd lisp,
“Pray, Captain, do you swim?”
I must come out next spring, Mama, &c.
