The Humourous Poetry of the English Language

277
Set out with Papa, to see Louis Dix-huit
Make his bow to some half-dozen women and boys,
Who get up a small concert of shrill Vive le Rois--
And how vastly genteeler, my clear, even this is,
Than vulgar Pall-Mall's oratorio of hisses!
The gardens seem'd full--so, of course, we walk'd o'er 'em,
'Mong orange-trees, clipp'd into town-bred decorum,
And Daphnes, and vases, and many a statue
There staring, with not even a stitch on them, at you!
The ponds, too, we view'd--stood awhile on the brink
To contemplate the play of those pretty gold fishes--
"LIVE BULLION" says merciless Bob, "which I think,
Would, if COIN'D, with a little MINT sauce, be delicious!"
But WHAT, Dolly, what is the gay orange-grove,
Or gold fishes, to her that's in search of her love?
In vain did I wildly explore every chair
Where a thing LIKE a man was--no lover sat there!
In vain my fond eyes did I eagerly cast
At the whiskers, mustaches, and wigs that went past,
To obtain, if I could, but a glance at that curl,
But a glimpse of those whiskers, as sacred, my girl,
As the lock that, Pa says, is to Mussulmen given,
For the angel to hold by that "lugs them to heaven!"
Alas, there went by me full many a quiz,
And mustaches in plenty, but nothing like his!
Disappointed, I found myself sighing out "well-a-day,"
Thought of the words of T-H M-RE'S Irish melody,
Something about the "green spot of delight,"
(Which you know, Captain Macintosh sung to us one day)
Ah, Dolly! MY "spot" was that Saturday night,
And its verdure, how fleeting, had wither'd by Sunday!
We dined at a tavern--La, what do I say?
If Bob was to know!--a Restaurateur's, dear;
Where your PROPEREST ladies go dine every day,
And drink Burgundy out of large tumblers, like beer.
Fine Bob (for he's really grown SUPER-fine)
Condescended, for once, to make one of the party;
Of course, though but three, we had dinner for nine,
And, in spite of my grief, love, I own I ate hearty;