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

Were I a country villa to select
Like Granby Grove in every respect,
Park like, and pretty; one of those estates
With two approaches, and with two lodge gates;

I never would be tempted, for the sake
Of glen and mountain, cataract and lake,
To choose a dwelling in its summer dress,
Six hundred miles from London, (more or less)
Without one human habitation near,
And roads impassable one half the year.
The summer choice of such a tenement
Leads to “the winter of our discontent.”
And oh! as little would I like to own
One situated near a country town;
So near that Mistress this, or Mistress that,
Could drop in of an afternoon to chat;
So very near, that e'en old maids could take
The walk to gossip over wine and cake;
And yet so far, 'twere cruel, when they come
To send them back again with “not at home.”
Place me the town precisely five miles off,
For all my wants and wishes near enough;
The mail will leave my letters at the gate;
And though perhaps pedestrians must wait,
And yearly club together, and approach
In a landau—(the Angel's old glass coach),
Between these visits months must intervene,
Not angel ones—tho' few and far between.
And o'er the luncheon tray we then shall hear
Provincial politics just once a year;
The sly remark, that certain people deem
That certain people are not what they seem,
Adding, that certain other people know
They are, or were, or will be so and so.
The confidential whispers of the day,
Still whisper'd in a confidential way,
Till confidants the whispers wide diffuse,
And all the smiling circle shares the news.

But Granby Grove is only two short miles
From Granby Town; and those who don't mind stiles
May walk across the fields, a shorter way;
Call late, and then judiciously delay,
And stay and dine—if they are ask'd to stay.

The Grove is therefore often throng'd with visitors,
The favour'd haunt of feminine inquisitors.

Think not from this the vile opinion mine,
That the word gossip must be feminine;
For I have seen the male, and frankly state
The coat and waistcoat gossip most I hate.
For “trifles light as air” may well engage
The single lady of a certain age,
Who lives alone, with eyes too dim to find,
With book or needle, pastime for the mind.
To her it would be cruelty to grudge
The observatory where she loves to lodge,
In the High Street, just opposite the shop
Where customers continually stop;
With a bay window, where from her snug seat,
She has a prospect up and down the street;
Picks up the latest rumours, one by one,
Hears more than ever was or will be done,
And nightly takes her tea chest from the shelf,
And tells to others what she heard herself.

But look without abhorrence, if you can,
Upon a gossip in the shape of man;
Man, in whose avocations you expect
Some trace of energy or intellect:
The book, the pen; or else, with those who shun
These home pursuits, the courser and the gun.

We turn to Lady Rose, who blithe and gay
Holds her last levee at the Grove to-day.
We find her seated by a portly dame
In silk and swan's down; Plimpton is her name,
Wife of a banker, proud to represent
One half of Granby town in Parliament.
“What, off to-morrow!” she exclaims, “my Lady,
And here you sits! you never will be ready;
I keeps you from your packing, I'm afraid.
But law! you leaves all them things to your maid!
I does all that myself—safe bind, safe find—
I sorts the articles of every kind,

The heavy things at bottom—light at top;
I puts my hand upon 'em when we stop,
Like a phenolemon, in fact you see,
I always does it all for Mister P.
We goes to town next week, the House of Commons
Has sent my poor dear man some sort of summons.
If he sits up all night to hear them speak
It will anniliate him in a week,
But I suppose, if he don't go there now,
The king will miss him, and there'll be a row.
Great men, my Lady, leads most shocking lives,
And so I'm very sure do great men's wives!
I sha'nt know know no one up in town, I fear,
But as we lives contagious like, down here,
I hopes to meet you in a friendly way,
I'll let you know our house, good day, good day!”

Off waddles the great man's great wife; and now
Comes a young Clergyman with simp'ring bow,
(Not Mary's cousin and acknowledged Love,
The Curate of the village near the Grove)
The Curate of the Town, and prouder far,
A Preacher aiming to be popular.
And pulpit popularity is not
His only aim, far from it, he has got
A longing after notoriety,
Whatever the pursuit may chance to be.
None dress so well as the Reverend Mr. Flinn,
And then how black his hair! how white his skin!
The last new cut in coats, if you would own,
The Reverend Mr. Flinn's is new from town.
To see him rising is a perfect treat,
The Reverend Mr. Flinn has such a seat!
No Granby ball without his aid can answer;
The Reverend Mr. Flinn is such a dancer!
First at the list of concerts he is reckon'd,
The Reverend Mr. Flinn sings such a second!
Dames who at whist love partners who can win,
Look kindly on the Reverend Mr. Flinn.

At water parties he is always present,
The Reverend Mr. Flinn can be so pleasant.
At archeries, the arrow is put in
The bull's eye by the Reverend Mr. Flinn!
Some mothers, and daughters too, assert
The Reverend Mr. Flinn is apt to flirt;
Yet marriage surely were a greater sin
In one so poor as the Reverend Mr. Flinn!

A “Ladyship” is always sure to win
Attention from the Reverend Mr. Flinn.
And though more flattering compliments are heard
When speaking to the lady of a “Lord,”
The bow and smile he never can forget
Due to the lady of a “Baronet.”
And doubly interesting she appears,
When in the rural coterie he hears
That she will have that eligible thing,
A house in town, in the ensuing spring.

At Mrs. Plimpton's exit, John came in,
And next announced “The Reverend Mr. Flinn.”
“You'll be in Baker Street to-morrow night!
A charming change! Your Ladyship is right:
There's nothing after all like town, my Lady,
I'm dying for the opera already!
I must leave poor dear Granby in the lurch,
And get some worthy man to serve my church.
Town is my element, I never can be
Appreciated in a place like Granby.
I am not vain; far from it, but I seek
Some chapel near the squares, when once a week
I may, unbored by burials and marriages,
Preach to a well dress'd crowd who come in carriages.
One's lost at Granby—positively lost;
I'm sick of the eternal tea and toast.
'Two'nt do to say: ‘regret you cannot go;’
They know you cannot be engag'd, they know
Where every body breakfasts, dines and sups,
And when at tea they fill their china cups,

Look out for every creature they invite,
Deem a refusal vastly impolite.
The town boasts but one party in one night!”

Now Lady Rose was very well aware
The Reverend Mr. Flinn's incessant care
Was by these very persons to be petted,
And when unasked, she knew how much he fretted!
Their daily flatterer, though it was his rule,
Absent to turn them into ridicule!

“Dear me! you quite surprise me!” she exclaim'd.
“The Reverend Mr. Flinn is always nam'd
At Granby with delight; I own I thought
You were as glad to seek, as to be sought!”

“Oh, no, my Lady, I am sadly teazed;
And if at times I manage to seem pleased,
It is an amiable weakness, thus
To smile on those who inconvenience us.”

“A moral maxim that,” said Lady Rose;
“You practice what you preach, Sir, I suppose.
But, Mr. Flinn, I really understood
You meant to settle in the neighbourhood.”

“Settle,” exclaimed the Reverend Mr. Flinn,
“A charming country this to settle in!
But I'm not one who, in a country town,
Could, as the vulgar phrase is, ‘settle down.’
Of course your Ladyship alludes, I know,
To the rumour of my marriage with Miss Snow.—
She's prettyish, and rich—but you must own
She is deficient both in taste and ton.
I must be less attentive—'tis a sin
To let her think she will be Mistress Flinn.”

“How fortunate! you may commence to-day
Your system of reserve without delay;
See all the Snows, the parents and your love,
A perfect snow storm, driving to the Grove!”

The Reverend Mr. Flinn seem'd rather flurried,
Rose to depart—and then his words were hurried.
The Snows were usher'd in ere he retreated,
He could not leave the room, he soon was seated
Next the Miss Snow whose hopes were to be chill'd,
And by a slighted passion prematurely kill'd!
Unfortunate young man! to thaw that snow,
How he hath labour'd nobody can know!
And how that snow hath frozen by delay
All his advances, nobody can say!
And now she seems much more inclined to chat
Than usual! He fidgets with his hat,
Ashamed that Lady Rose the chat should see
Yet loth to lose the opportunity.
He fears to lose, yet is ashamed to win!
Oh! most embarrass'd Reverend Mr. Flinn!

Pity the man who, rising once a year
A little way above his proper sphere,
Strives—(vain endeavour!) to appear to be
Indigenous to such society.
Then, to appear recherché, he disclaims
All knowledge of the old familiar names;
The man whose hand in fellowship he takes,
Whose roof has shelter'd him, whose bread he breaks;
The woman he has woo'd with all the strength
Dissimulation boasts, who loves at length,
Who mourns his absence, and will smiling stand
To welcome his return with lip and hand;
These he disowns, or if he deems it right
To say he knows them before ears polite,
Insults them by acknowledgment so slight.

Such is the Reverend Mr. Flinn, and now
Having forsworn his friends, he knows not how
To act reserve before my Lady Rose,
Yet slily smile as usual on the Snows.
Disastrous destiny of trifling fools,
Who wish to sit, yet tamper with two stools!

The Snows prepare to go, and they begin
To wonder at the Reverend Mr. Flinn!
“I fear you're poorly, Sir, you've walk'd too far,
We'll take you back to Granby, if you are;
So says Mamma—says Miss: “You know there'll be
A vacant seat upon the box with me.”
“Sick!” says old Snow, “Come with us, stay and dine,
And I will cure you, Flinn, with old port wine!”

The gentlemanly man whom you prefer,
Will know you for a year, and call you “Sir;”
The vulgar being whom you never seek,
Will slap your back and “Flinn” you in a week!

The Reverend Mr. Flinn though quite unused
To saying “No, I thank you,” twice refused!
Then looking with the corner of his eye
At Lady Rose's face, he heav'd a sigh;
And glancing at the delicate Miss Snow,
He could not have the heart to utter “No.”
Soon from the window Lady Rose espied
The lovers on the dicky, side by side!

The carriage drove away, and ere the bell
Rings for the meal that most men love so well,
Two dozen more across the lawn have flitted,
And (most unusual thing) have been admitted!

But now the last is gone, the levee done,
The lady sits complacently alone,
And murmurs to herself in accents sweet,
“To-morrow I shall dine in Baker Street!”