The Humourous Poetry of the English Language

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That, by Pa's strict command, I no longer employ
That enchanting couturiere, Madame LE ROI,
But am forc'd, dear, to have VICTORINE, who--deuce take her--
It seems is, at present, the king's mantua-maker--
I mean OF HIS PARTY--and, though much the smartest,
LE ROI is condemned as a rank B*n*pa*t*st.
Think, DOLL, how confounded I look'd--so well knowing
The Colonel's opinions--my cheeks were quite glowing;
I stammer'd out something--nay, even half named
The LEGITIMATE semptress, when, loud, he exclaimed,
"Yes, yes, by the stiching 'tis plain to be seen
It was made by that B*rb*n**t b--h, VIOTORINE!"
What a word for a hero, but heroes WILL err,
And I thought, dear, I'd tell you things JUST as they were,
Besides, though the word on good manners intrench,
I assure you, 'tis not HALF so shocking in French.
But this cloud, though embarrassing, soon pass'd away,
And the bliss altogether, the dreams of that day,
The thoughts that arise when such dear fellows woo us--
The NOTHINGS that then, love, are EVERYTHING to us--
That quick correspondence of glances and sighs,
And what BOB calls the "Twopenny-Post of the Eyes"--
Ah DOLL, though I KNOW you've a heart, 'tis in vain
To a heart so unpracticed these things to explain,
They can only be felt in their fullness divine
By her who has wander'd, at evening's decline,
Through a valley like that, with a Colonel like mine!
But here I must finish--for BOB, my dear DOLLY,
Whom physic, I find, always makes melancholy,
Is seized with a fancy for church-yard reflections;
And full of all yesterday's rich recollections,
Is just setting off for Montmartre--"for THERE is,"
Said he, looking solemn, "the tomb of the VERYS!
Long, long have I wisn'd, as a votary true,
O'er the grave of such talents to utter my moans;
And to-day, as my stomach is not in good cue
For the FLESH of the VERYS--I'll visit their BONES!"
He insists upon MY going with him--how teasing!