I’D be a Butterfly born in a bower,
Where roses and lilies and violets meet;
Roving for ever from flower to flower,
And kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet!
I’d never languish for wealth, or for power,
I’d never sigh to see slaves at my feet;
I’d be a Butterfly born in a bower,
Kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet.
O could I pilfer the wand of a fairy,
I’d have a pair of those beautiful wings;
Their summer days’ ramble is sportive and airy,
They sleep in a rose when the nightingale sings.
Those who have wealth must be watchful and wary;
Power, alas! nought but misery brings!
I’d be a Butterfly, sportive and airy,
Rock’d in a rose when the nightingale sings!
What, though you tell me each gay little rover
Shrinks from the breath of the first autumn day:
Surely ’tis better when summer is over
To die when all fair things are fading away.
Some in life’s winter may toil to discover
Means of procuring a weary delay—
I’d be a Butterfly; living, a rover,
Dying when fair things are fading away!
_Thomas Haynes Bayly._
“I MUST COME OUT NEXT SPRING”
I MUST come out next Spring, Mamma,
I must come out next Spring;
To keep me with my Governess
Would be a cruel thing:
Whene’er I see my sisters dress’d
In leno and in lace,—
Miss Twig’s apartment seems to be
A miserable place.
I must come out next Spring, Mamma,
I must come out next Spring;
To keep me with my Governess
Would be a cruel thing.
I’m very sick of Grosv’nor Square,
The path within the rails;
I’m weary of Telemachus,
And such outlandish tales:
I hate my French, my vile Chambaud;
In tears I’ve turn’d his leaves;
Oh! let me Frenchify my hair,
And take to Gigot sleeves.
I must come out next Spring, Mamma,
I must come out next Spring;
To keep me with my Governess
Would be a cruel thing.
I know quite well what I should say
To partners at a ball;
I’ve got a pretty speech or two,
And they would serve for all.
If an Hussar, I’d praise his horse,
And win a smile from him;
And if a Naval man, I’d lisp,
“Pray, Captain, do you swim?”
I must come out next Spring, Mamma,
I must come out next Spring;
To keep me with my Governess
Would be a cruel thing.
_Thomas Haynes Bayly._
“WHY DON’T THE MEN PROPOSE?”
WHY don’t the men propose, mamma?
Why don’t the men propose?
Each seems just coming to the point,
And then away he goes!
It is no fault of yours, mamma,
That everybody knows;
You fête the finest men in town,
Yet, oh, they won’t propose!
I’m sure I’ve done my best, mamma,
To make a proper match;
For coronets and eldest sons
I’m ever on the watch:
I’ve hopes when some _distingué_ beau
A glance upon me throws;
But though he’ll dance, and smile, and flirt,
Alas, he won’t propose!
I’ve tried to win by languishing,
And dressing like a blue;
I’ve bought big books, and talk’d of them,
As if I read them through!
With hair cropp’d like a man, I’ve felt
The heads of all the beaux;
But Spurzheim could not touch their hearts,
And oh, they won’t propose!
I threw aside the books, and thought
That ignorance was bliss;
I felt convinced that men preferr’d
A simple sort of Miss;
And so I lisp’d out naught beyond
Plain “yeses” or plain “noes,”
And wore a sweet unmeaning smile;
Yet, oh, they won’t propose!
Last night, at Lady Ramble’s rout,
I heard Sir Harry Gale
Exclaim, “Now, I propose again——”
I started, turning pale;
I really thought my time was come,
I blush’d like any rose;
But, oh! I found ’twas only at
_Ecarté_ he’d propose!
And what is to be done, mamma?
Oh, what is to be done?
I really have no time to lose,
For I am thirty-one.
At balls, I am too often left
Where spinsters sit in rows;
Why won’t the men propose, mamma?
Why won’t the men propose?
_Thomas Haynes Bayly._