DON'T TALK OF SEPTEMBER!
I
Don't talk of September!—a lady
Must think it of all months the worst;
The men are preparing already
To take themselves off on the first.
I try to arrange a small party,
The girls dance together; how tame!
I'd get up my game of écarté,
But they go to bring down their game!
II
Last month, their attention to quicken,
A supper I knew was the thing;
But now from my turkey and chicken
They're tempted by birds on the wing!
They shoulder their terrible rifles,
(It's really too much for my nerves!)
And slighting my sweets and my trifles,
Prefer my Lord Harry's preserves!
III
Miss Lovemore, with great consternation,
Now hears of the horrible plan,
And fears that her little flirtation
Was only a flash in the pan!
Oh! marriage is hard of digestion,
The men are all sparing of words;
And now 'stead of popping the question,
They set off to pop at the birds.
IV
Go, false ones, your aim is so horrid,
That love at the sight of you dies;
You care not for locks on the forehead,
The locks made by Manton you prize!
All thoughts sentimental exploding,
Like flints I behold you depart;
You heed not, when priming and loading,
The load you have left on my heart.
V
They talk about patent percussions,
And all preparations for sport;
And these double barrel discussions
Exhaust double bottles of port!
The dearest is deaf to my summons,
As off on his pony he jogs;
A doleful condition is woman's;
The men are all gone to the dogs!
