I saw at Lord George's _rout_,
Amid a blaze of _ton_;
And such a _tournure_ ne'er "came out"
For Maradon Carson!
For who that mark'd that sylph-like grace
That full Canova hip,
That robe of rich Chantilly lace,
That faultless satin slip,
Could doubt that she would be _the belle_
To make a thousand waistcoats swell?
I saw her seated by my lord,
As _joli comme un ange_;
She took some _pate perigord_.
And after that _blanc mange_:
A glass of Moyse's pink champagne
Lent lustre to _ses eux_.
And then--I heard a Grisian strain--
It was her sweet _adieux_;
And I--my friend the butler sought,
To slake with stout each burning thought.
* * * * *