Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems by the late Thomas Haynes Bayly; Edited by his Widow. With A Memoir of the Author. In Two Volumes |
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MY DEJEUNER A LA FOURCHETTE. |
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 | Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems |  |
MY DEJEUNER A LA FOURCHETTE.
I
What a beautiful day! Had the weather been wet,What a damp on my déjeûner à la fourchette.
There is but one drawback, I own, to my bliss—
'Tis late in the year for a party like this;
So I've stuck paper roses on every bush,
And my garden has got quite a midsummer blush;
And I've calico lilies, judiciously set,
To embellish my déjeûner à la fourchette.
II
I've order'd the people to water the roadAll the way from the town to my rural abode.
Till three, I suppose, not a soul will arrive;
Bless me! there's a chaise at the end of the drive!
'Tis old Mrs. Smith!—what can bring her so soon?
She thinks herself late, too—a breakfast at noon!
And dress'd, I protest, in her best tabinet;
What a blot on my déjeûner à la fourchette!
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III
Here's a three-corner'd note (how excited I feel!)What an elegant hand! and a coronet seal!
From the Duchess, confined to her room with a cough;
Had I known, I'd have put my sweet déjeûner off.
An excuse from Sir Thomas—“A touch of the gout!”
And one from Lord Harry—“Too ill to go out!”
I declare I have lost all the cream of the set,
That I asked to my déjeûner à la fourchette.
IV
But the guests are arriving. My villa has gotQuite a park-like appearance—a beautiful spot!
The singers, equipp'd in a foreign costume,
The horns in that arbour, too loud for a room;
The band on the lawn in the pretty marquee,
This tent for the dinner, and that for the tea;
(Though breakfast they call it, no dinner they'll get,
Except at my déjeûner à la fourchette).
V
What's Harris, my butler, attempting to say?Champagne! why we gave out ten dozen to-day!
All gone! and the officers calling for more!
Go, open the tent for quadrilles, I implore;
Go, Harris, and hint we're expecting them soon,
And tell Mr. Tweedle to strike up a tune.
I'm certain my husband will never forget
The cost of my déjeûner à la fourchette.
VI
'Tis getting quite dark! that unfortunate breezeBlows out all the lamps that we placed in the trees.
The dew is so heavy, my rockets won't go,
And my Catherine-wheels are exceedingly slow.
But I heed not the darkness; if people are lost,
What accounts there will be in the Herald and Post!
And 'twill give me éclat, if a Lord is upset
On his way from my déjeûner à la fourchette.
| Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems | |