That poor young man!—­I’m sure and certain
    Despair is making up his shroud: 
  He walks all night beneath the curtain
    Of the dim sky and murky cloud—­
  Draws landscapes,—­throws such mournful glances!—­
    Writes verses,—­has such splendid eyes—­
  An ugly name,—­but Laura fancies
    He’s some great person in disguise! 
  And since his dress is all the fashion,
    And since he’s very dark and tall,
  I think that, out of pure compassion,
    I’ll get papa to go and call.

  So Lord St. Ives is occupying
    The whole of Mr. Ford’s Hotel—­
  Last Saturday his man was trying
    A little nag I want to sell. 
  He brought a lady in the carriage—­
    Blue eyes,—­eighteen, or thereabouts—­
  Of course, you know, we hope it’s marriage! 
    But yet the femme de chambre doubts. 
  She look’d so pensive when we met her—­
    Poor thing! and such a charming shawl! 
  Well! till we understand it better,
    It’s quite impossible to call.

  Old Mr. Fund, the London banker,
    Arrived to-day at Premium Court—­
  I would not, for the world, cast anchor
    In such a horrid dangerous port—­
  Such dust and rubbish, lath and plaster,
    (Contractors play the meanest tricks)
  The roof’s as crazy as its master,
    And he was born in fifty-six—­
  Stairs creaking—­cracks in every landing,
    The colonnade is sure to fall—­
  We sha’n’t find post or pillar standing,
    Unless we make great haste to call.

  Who was that sweetest of sweet creatures,
    Last Sunday, in the Rector’s seat? 
  The finest shape,—­the loveliest features,
    I never saw such tiny feet. 
  My brother,—­(this is quite between us)
    Poor Arthur,—­’twas a sad affair! 
  Love at first sight,—­She’s quite a Venus,
    But then she’s poorer far than fair—­
  And so my father and my mother
    Agreed it would not do at all—­
  And so,—­I’m sorry for my brother! 
    It’s settled that we’re not to call.

  And there’s an author, full of knowledge—­
    And there’s a captain on half-pay—­
  And there’s a baronet from college,
    Who keeps a boy, and rides a bay—­
  And sweet Sir Marcus from the Shannon,
    Fine specimen of brogue and bone—­
  And Doctor Calipee, the canon,
    Who weighs, I fancy, twenty stone—­
  A maiden lady is adorning
    The faded front of Lily Hall—­
  Upon my word, the first fine morning,
    We’ll make around, my dear, and call.

  Alas! disturb not, maid and matron,
    The swallow in my humble thatch—­
  Your son may find a better patron,
    Your niece may meet a richer match—­
  I can’t afford to give a dinner,
    I never was on Almack’s list—­
  And since I seldom rise a winner,
    I never like to play at whist—­
  Unknown to me the stocks are falling—­
    Unwatch’d by me the glass may fall—­
  Let all the world pursue its calling,
    I’m not at home if people call.