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 was then hastening in pomp to its set.
And full on the Colonel's dark whiskers shone down,
When he askt me, 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,
That, by Pa's strict command, I no longer employ[2]
That enchanting _couturiere_, Madame LE ROI;
But am forced now to have VICTORINE, who--deuce take her!--
It seems is, at present, the King's mantua-maker--
I mean _of his party_--and, tho' much the smartest,
LE ROI is condemned as a rank Bonapartist.[3]
Think, DOLL, how confounded I lookt--so well knowing
The Colonel's opinions--my cheeks were quite glowing;
I stammered out something--nay, even half named
The _legitimate_ sempstress, when, loud, he exclaimed,
"Yes; yes, by the stitching 'tis plain to be seen
"It was made by that Bourbonite bitch, VICTORINE!"
What a word for a hero!--but heroes _will_ err,
And I thought, dear, I'd tell you things _just_ as they were.
Besides tho' the word on good manners intrench,
I assure you 'tis not _half_ so shocking in French.
But this cloud, tho' embarrassing, soon past 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 "Two-penny-post of the Eyes"--
Ah, DOLL! tho' I _know_ you've a heart, 'tis in vain,
To a heart so unpractised these things to explain.
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