I know a man who manhood's name profanes,--
Most Mayfair mothers own him rather wild;
But, since he has more sovereigns than brains,
Each tries to catch and tame him for her child.
He knows enough Arithmetic to keep
A Betting-book, and lose his little bets,
And though his sense of honour is not deep,
He always pays his "honourable" debts.
Some scores of trowsers own him as their Lord,
And endless ties and one unchanging sneer;
He owes his tailor what would lodge and board
And wash a brace of curates for a year.
His wit is not so pointed as his boots,
Bright with the polish which his manners lack,
Nor yet so chaste as those astounding suits
Which deck his shrunken limbs and padded back.
His stays are always, _he_ is often, "tight,"
His collar, like his birth, is _sans reproche_;
He seldom does a thing because it's right,
But, on the other hand, is never _gauche_.
The Music Hall hath charms to soothe his breast,
But tries in vain to tinge his pallid cheek;
And yet the print he knows and loves the best,
Is that which duly blushes once a week.
He never dances since the law shut up
His native haunt, where he could really go it,
And romp the _pas-de-quatre_, and shout and sup--
(Of course the Mayfair mothers did not know it).
He never dances--but he goes about,
And you will always meet him "everywhere,"
And sometimes after supper he'll sit out
A dance or two, provided she is fair.
Some day he'll stoop to raise her to his throne,
Look tame and tired of wild oats--for a time;
And, when They reap the whirlwind he has sown,
We'll talk of his misfortune and her crime.
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