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.
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