The Humourous Poetry of the English Language

281
And--such a mistake as no mortal hit ever on--
Fancied the PRESENT Lord CAMDEN the CLEVER one!
But politics ne'er were the sweet fellow's trade;
'T was for war and the ladies my Colonel was made.
And, oh, had you heard, as together we walk'd
Through that beautiful forest, how sweetly he talk'd;
And how perfectly well he appear'd, DOLL, to know
All the life and adventures of JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU!--
"'T was there," said he--not that his WORDS I can state--
'T was a gibberish that Cupid alone could translate;--
But "there," said he (pointing where, small and remote,
The dear Hermitage rose), "there his JULIE he wrote,
Upon paper gilt-edged, without blot or erasure,
Then sanded it over with silver and azure,
And--oh, what will genius and fancy not do?-
Tied the leaves up together with nomparsille blue!"
What a trait of Rousseau! what a crowd of emotions
From sand and blue ribbons are conjured up here!
Alas! that a man of such exquisite notions,
Should send his poor brats to the Foundling, my dear!
"'T was here, too, perhaps," Colonel CALICOT said--
As down the small garden he pensively led--
(Though once I could see his sublime forehead wrinkle
With rage not to find there the loved periwinkle)--
"'T was here he received from the fair D'EPINAY,
(Who call'd him so sweetly HER BEAR, every day),
That dear flannel petticoat, pull'd off to form
A waistcoat to keep the enthusiast warm!"
Such, DOLL, were the sweet recollections we ponder'd,
As, full of romance, through that valley we wander'd,
The flannel (one's train of ideas, how odd it is)
Led us to talk about other commodities,
Cambric, and silk, and I ne'er shall forget,
For the sun way then hastening in pomp to its set,
And full on the Colonel's dark whiskers shone down,
When he ask'd ne, with eagerness--who made my gown?
The question confused me--for, DOLL, you must know,
And I OUGHT to have told my best friend long ago,