"Pray what do they do at the Springs?"
The question is easy to ask:
But to answer it fully, my dear,
Were rather a serious task.
And yet, in a bantering way,
As the magpie or mocking-bird sings,
I'll venture a bit of a song,
To tell what they do at the Springs.
_Imprimis_, my darling, they drink
The waters so sparkling and clear;
Though the flavour is none of the best,
And the odour exceedingly queer;
But the fluid is mingled, you know,
With wholesome medicinal things;
So they drink, and they drink, and they drink--
And that's what they do at the Springs!
Then with appetites keen as a knife,
They hasten to breakfast, or dine;
The latter precisely at three,
The former from seven till nine.
Ye gods! what a rustle and rush,
When the eloquent dinner-bell rings!
Then they eat, and they eat, and they eat--
And that's what they do at the Springs!
Now they stroll in the beautiful walks,
Or loll in the shade of the trees;
Where many a whisper is heard
That never is heard by the breeze;
And hands are commingled with hands,
Regardless of conjugal rings:
And they flirt, and they flirt, and they flirt--
And that's what they do at the Springs!
The drawing-rooms now are ablaze,
And music is shrieking away;
Terpsichore governs the hour,
And fashion was never so gay!
An arm round a tapering waist--
How closely and fondly it clings!
So they waltz, and they waltz, and they waltz--
And that's what they do at the Springs!
In short--as it goes in the world--
They eat, and they drink, and they sleep;
They talk, and they walk, and they woo;
They sigh, and they laugh, and they weep;
They read, and they ride, and they dance
(With other remarkable things):
They pray, and they play, and they PAY--
And _that's_ what they do at the Springs!