Part 1 (1/2)

f.a.n.n.y.

by Fitz-Greene Halleck.

I.

f.a.n.n.y was younger once than she is now, And prettier of course: I do not mean To say that there are wrinkles on her brow; Yet, to be candid, she is past eighteen-- Perhaps past twenty--but the girl is shy About her age, and Heaven forbid that I

II.

Should get myself in trouble by revealing A secret of this sort; I have too long Loved pretty women with a poet's feeling, And when a boy, in day dream and in song, Have knelt me down and wors.h.i.+pp'd them: alas!

They never thank'd me for't--but let that pa.s.s.

III.

I've felt full many a heart-ache in my day, At the mere rustling of a muslin gown, And caught some dreadful colds, I blush to say, While s.h.i.+vering in the shade of beauty's frown.

They say her smiles are sunbeams--it may be-- But never a sunbeam would she throw on me.

IV.

But f.a.n.n.y's is an eye that you may gaze on For half an hour, without the slightest harm; E'en when she wore her smiling summer face on There was but little danger, and the charm That youth and wealth once gave, has bade farewell.

Hers is a sad, sad tale--'tis mine its woes to tell.

V.

Her father kept, some fifteen years ago, A retail dry-good shop in Chatham-street, And nursed his little earnings, sure though slow, Till, having muster'd wherewithal to meet The gaze of the great world, he breathed the air Of Pearl-street--and ”set up” in Hanover-square.

VI.

Money is power, 'tis said--I never tried; I'm but a poet--and bank-notes to me Are curiosities, as closely eyed, Whene'er I get them, as a stone would be, Toss'd from the moon on Doctor Mitchill's table, Or cla.s.sic brickbat from the tower of Babel.

VII.

But he I sing of well has known and felt That money hath a power and a dominion; For when in Chatham-street the good man dwelt, No one would give a sous for his opinion.

And though his neighbours were extremely civil, Yet, on the whole, they thought him--a poor devil,

VIII.

A decent kind of person; one whose head Was not of brains particularly full; It was not known that he had ever said Any thing worth repeating--'twas a dull, Good, honest man--what Paulding's muse would call A ”cabbage head”--but he excelled them all