But, alas! nothing's perfect on earth--even she,
This divine little gipsy, does odd things sometimes;
Talks learning--looks wise (rather painful to see),
Prints already in two County papers her rhymes;
And raves--the sweet, charming, absurd little dear,
About _Amulets, Bijous_, and _Keepsakes_, next year.
In a manner which plainly bad symptoms portends
Of that Annual _blue_ fit, so distressing to friends;
A fit which, tho' lasting but one short edition,
Leaves the patient long after in sad inanition.
However, let's hope for the best--and, meanwhile,
Be it mine still to bask in the niece's warm smile;
While you, if you're wise, Dick, will play the gallant
(Uphill work, I confess,) to her Saint of an Aunt.
Think, my boy, for a youngster like you, who've a lack,
Not indeed of rupees, but of all other specie.
What luck thus to find a kind witch at your back,
An old goose with gold eggs, from all debts to release ye!
Never mind, tho' the spinster be reverend and thin,
What are all the Three Graces to her Three per Cents?
While her aeres!--oh Dick, it don't matter one pin
How she touches the affections, so _you_ touch the rents;
And Love never looks half so pleased as when, bless him, he
Sings to an old lady's purse "Open, Sesame."
By the way, I've just heard, in my walks, a report,
Which, if true, will insure for your visit some sport.
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