At first, I felt hurt, for I wisht it, I own,
If for no other cause but to vex Miss MALONE,--
(The great heiress, you know, of Shandangan, who's here,
Showing off with _such_ airs, and a real Cashmere,
While mine's but a paltry, old rabbit-skin, dear!)
But Pa says, on deeply considering the thing,
"I am just as well pleased it should _not_ be the King;
"As I think for my BIDDY, so _gentille_ and _jolie_.
"Whose charms may their price in an _honest_ way fetch,
"That a Brandenburgh"--(what _is_ a Brandenburgh, DOLLY?)--
"Would be, after all, no such very great catch.
"If the REGENT indeed"--added he, looking sly--
(You remember that comical squint of his eye)
But I stopt him with "La, Pa, how _can_ you say so,
"When the REGENT loves none but old women, you know!"
Which is fact, my dear DOLLY--we, girls of eighteen,
And so slim--Lord, he'd think us not fit to be seen:
And would like us much better as old-as, as old
As that Countess of DESMOND, of whom I've been told
That she lived to much more than a hundred and ten,
And was killed by a fall from a cherry-tree then!
What a frisky old girl! but--to come to my lover,
Who, tho' not a King, is a _hero_ I'll swear,--
You shall hear all that's happened, just briefly run over,
Since that happy night, when we whiskt thro' the air!
Let me see--'twas on Saturday--yes, DOLLY, yes--
From that evening I date the first dawn of my bliss;
When we both rattled off in that dear little carriage,
Whose journey, BOB says, is so like Love and Marriage,
"Beginning gay, desperate, dashing, down-hilly,
"And ending as dull as a six-inside Dilly!"[1]
Well, scarcely a wink did I sleep the night thro';
And, next day, having scribbled my letter to you,
With a heart full of hope this sweet fellow to meet,
I 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 dear, even this is,
Than vulgar Pall-Mall's oratorio of hisses!
The gardens seemed full--so, of Course, we walkt o'er 'em,
'Mong orange-trees, clipt 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 viewed--stood awhile on the brink
To contemplate the play of those pretty gold fishes--
"_Live bullion_," says merciless BOB, "which, I think,
"Would, if _coined_, 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, mustachios and wigs that went past,
To obtain if I could but a glance at that curl,--
A glimpse of those whiskers, as sacred, my girl,
As the lock that, Pa says,[2]is to Mussulman given,
For the angel to hold by that "lugs them to heaven!"
Alas, there went by me full many a quiz,
And mustachios in plenty, but nothing like his!
Disappointed, I found myself sighing out "well-a-day,"--
Thought of the words of TOM MOORE'S Irish Melody,
Something about the "green spot of delight"
(Which, you know, Captain MACKINTOSH sung to us one day):
Ah DOLLY, _my_ "spot" was that Saturday night,
And its verdure, how fleeting, had withered 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.
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