Where is Miss Myrtle? can any one tell?
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
She flirts with another, I know very well;
And I--am left all alone!
She flies to the window when Arundel rings:
She's all over smiles when Lord Archibald sings;
It's plain that her Cupid has two pair of wings;
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
Her love and my love are different things:
And I--am left all alone!
I brought her, one morning, a rose for her brow
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
She told me such horrors were never worn now:
And I--am left all alone!
But I saw her at night with a rose in her hair,
And I guess who it came from,--of course I don't care!
We all know that girls are as false us they're fair;
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
I'm sure the lieutenant's a horrible bear;
And I--am left all alone!
Whenever we go on the Downs for a ride,
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
She looks for another to trot by her side:
And I--am left all alone!
And whenever I take her down stairs from a ball,
She nods to some puppy to put on her shawl:
I'm a peaceable man, and I don't like a brawl:
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
But I would give a trifle to horsewhip them all:
And I--am left all alone!
She tells me her mother belongs to the sect,
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
Which holds that all waltzing is quite incorrect:
And I--am left all alone!
But a fire's in my heart and a fire's in my brain,
When she waltzes away with Sir Phelim O'Shane;
I don't think I ever _can_ ask her again:
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
And, lord! since the summer she's grown very plain,
And I--am left all alone!
She said that she liked me a twelvemonth ago!
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
And how should I guess that she'd torture me so!
And I--am left all alone!
Some day she'll find out it was not very wise
To laugh at the breath of a true lover's sighs:
After all, Fanny Myrtle is not such a prize;
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
Louisa Dalrymple has exquisite eyes:
And I'll be--no longer alone!
Mr. Praed has an exquisite poem, "Memory;" and we had nearly passed by a
song by Mr. T. Moore.
Alone beneath the moon I roved,
And thought how oft in hours gone by,
I heard my Mary say she loved
To look upon a moonlight sky!
The day had been one lengthened shower,
Till moonlight came, with lustre meek,
To light up every weeping flower,
Like smiles upon a mourner's cheek.
I called to mind from Eastern books
A thought that could not leave me soon:--
"The moon on many a night-flower looks,
The night-flower sees no other moon."
And thus I thought our fortune's run,
For many a lover sighs to thee;
While oh! I feel there is but _one_,
_One_ Mary in the world for me!
The illustrations are almost unexceptionably good; the _gems_ in this
way being Mrs. Siddons, as Lady Macbeth, by C. Rolls, after Harlowe: the
face is perhaps the most intellectual piece of engraving ever seen; the
sublime effect in so small a space is truly surprising. A Portrait, by
W. Danforth, after Leslie, ranks next; and the beauty and variety of the
remainder of the prints are so great as to prevent our _individualizing_
them to the reader. Taken altogether, they form one of the finest Annual
Galleries or Collections.
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