SCENE--A conversazione at Lady Crumpton's--Whist and weariness,
caricatures and Chinese Puzzle.--Young ladies making tea, and young
gentlemen making the agreeable.--The stableboy handing rout-cakes.--
Music expressive of there being nothing to do.
I play a spade--such strange new faces
Are flocking in from near and far:
Such frights--Miss Dobbs holds all the aces.--
One can't imagine who they are!
The lodgings at enormous prices,
New donkeys, and another fly--
And Madame Bonbon out of ices,
Although we're scarcely in July--
We're quite as sociable as any,
But our old horse can hardly crawl--
And really where there are so many,
We can't tell where we ought to call.
Pray who has seen the odd old fellow
Who took the Doctor's house last week?--
A pretty chariot,--livery yellow,
Almost as yellow as his cheek--
A widower, sixty-five, and surly,
And stiffer than a poplar-tree--
Drinks rum and water, gets up early
To dip his carcass in the sea--
He's always in a monstrous hurry,
And always talking of Bengal;
They say his cook makes noble curry--
I think, Louisa, we should call.
And so Miss Jones, the mantua-maker,
Has let her cottage on the hill?--
The drollest man, a sugar-baker,
Last year imported from the till--
Prates of his _orses_ and his _oney_,
Is quite in love with fields and farms--
A horrid Vandal,--but his money
Will buy a glorious coat of arms;
Old Clyster makes him take the waters;
Some say he means to give a ball--
And after all, with thirteen daughters,
I think, Sir Thomas, you might call.
That poor young man!--I'm sure and certain
Despair is making up his shroud:
He walks all night beneath the curtain
Of the dim sky and murky cloud--
Draws landscapes,--throws such mournful glances!--
Writes verses,--has such splendid eyes--
An ugly name,--but Laura fancies
He's some great person in disguise!
And since his dress is all the fashion,
And since he's very dark and tall,
I think that, out of pure compassion,
I'll get papa to go and call.
So Lord St. Ives is occupying
The whole of Mr. Ford's Hotel--
Last Saturday his man was trying
A little nag I want to sell.
He brought a lady in the carriage--
Blue eyes,--eighteen, or thereabouts--
Of course, you know, we _hope_ it's marriage!
But yet the _femme de chambre_ doubts.
She look'd so pensive when we met her--
Poor thing! and such a charming shawl!
Well! till we understand it better,
It's quite impossible to call.
Old Mr. Fund, the London banker,
Arrived to-day at Premium Court--
I would not, for the world, cast anchor
In such a horrid dangerous port--
Such dust and rubbish, lath and plaster,
(Contractors play the meanest tricks)
The roof's as crazy as its master,
And he was born in fifty-six--
Stairs creaking--cracks in every landing,
The colonnade is sure to fall--
We sha'n't find post or pillar standing,
Unless we make great haste to call.
Who was that sweetest of sweet creatures,
Last Sunday, in the Rector's seat?
The finest shape,--the loveliest features,
I never saw such tiny feet.
My brother,--(this is quite between us)
Poor Arthur,--'twas a sad affair!
Love at first sight,--She's quite a Venus,
But then she's poorer far than fair--
And so my father and my mother
Agreed it would not do at all--
And so,--I'm sorry for my brother!
It's settled that we're not to call.
And there's an author, full of knowledge--
And there's a captain on half-pay--
And there's a baronet from college,
Who keeps a boy, and rides a bay--
And sweet Sir Marcus from the Shannon,
Fine specimen of brogue and bone--
And Doctor Calipee, the canon,
Who weighs, I fancy, twenty stone--
A maiden lady is adorning
The faded front of Lily Hall--
Upon my word, the first fine morning,
We'll make around, my dear, and call.
Alas! disturb not, maid and matron,
The swallow in my humble thatch--
Your son may find a better patron,
Your niece may meet a richer match--
I can't afford to give a dinner,
I never was on Almack's list--
And since I seldom rise a winner,
I never like to play at whist--
Unknown to me the stocks are falling--
Unwatch'd by me the glass may fall--
Let all the world pursue its calling,
I'm not at home if people call.
_London Magazine._
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