Why, y-e-s--'twas rather late last night;
In fact, past six this morning.
My rascal valet, in a fright,
Awoke, and gave me warning.
But what of that?--I'm very young.
And you've "been in the Oven," or,
Like me, you're wrong'd by rumour's tongue,
So--pray don't tell the Governor.[1]
I dined a quarter after seven,
With Dashall of the Lancers;
Went to the opera at eleven,
To see the ballet-dancers.
From thence I saunter'd to the club--
Fortune to me's a sloven--or,
I surely must have won one rub,
But--mind! don't tell the Governor!
I went to Ascot t'other day,
Drove Kitty in a tandem;
Upset it 'gainst a brewer's dray--
I'd dined, so drove at random.
I betted high--an "outside" won--
I'd swear its hoofs were cloven, or
It ne'er the favourite horse had done,
But--don't you tell the Governor.
My cottage ornée down at Kew,
So picturesque and pretty,
Cost me of thousands not a few,
To fit it up for Kitty.
She said it charm'd her fancy quite,
But (still I can't help loving her)
She bolted with the plate one night--
You needn't tell the Governor.
My creditors are growing queer,
Nay, threaten to be furious;
I'll scan their paltry bills next year,
At present I'm not curious.
Such fellows are a monstrous bore,
So I and Harry Grosvenor
To-morrow start for Gallia's shore,
And leave duns--to the Governor.
[1] The author is aware there exists a legitimate rhyme for
_Porringer_, but believes a match for governor lies still in
the _terra incognita_ of allowable rhythm.
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