Part 12 (1/2)

A FRAGMENT.

His shop is a grocer's--a snug, genteel place, Near the corner of Oak-street and Pearl; He can dress, dance, and bow to the ladies with grace And ties his cravat with a curl.

He's ask'd to all parties--north, south, east, and west, That take place between Chatham and Cherry, And when he's been absent full oft has the ”best Society” ceased to be merry.

And nothing has darken'd a sky so serene, Nor disorder'd his beaus.h.i.+p's Elysium, Till this season among our _elite_ there has been What is call'd by the clergy ”a schism.”

'Tis all about eating and drinking--one set Gives sponge-cake, a few ”kisses” or so, And is cool'd after dancing with cla.s.sic sherbet, ”Sublimed” (see Lord Byron) ”with snow.”

Another insists upon punch and _perdrix_, Lobster-salad, Champagne, and, by way Of a novelty only, those pearls of our sea, Stew'd oysters from Lynn-Haven bay.

Miss Flounce, the young milliner, blue-eyed and bright, In the front parlour over her shop, ”Entertains,” as the phrase is, a party to-night, Upon peanuts and ginger-pop.

And Miss Fleece, who's a hosier, and not quite as young, But is wealthier far than Miss Flounce, She ”entertains” also to-night with cold tongue, Smoked herring, and cherry-bounce.

In praise of cold water the Theban bard spoke, He of Teos sang sweetly of wine; Miss Flounce is a Pindar in cashmere and cloak, Miss Fleece an Anacreon divine.

The Montagues carry the day in Swamp Place; In Pike-street the Capulets reign; A _limonadiere_ is the badge of one race, Of the other a flask of Champagne.

Now as each the same evening her soiree announces, What better, he asks, can be done, Than drink water from eight until ten with the Flounces, And then wine with the Fleeces till one!

SONG.

BY MISS * * * *.

_Air_, ”To ladies eyes a round, boy.”

MOORE.

The winds of March are humming Their parting song, their parting song, And summer's skies are coming, And days grow long, and days grow long.

I watch, but not in gladness, Our garden tree, our garden tree; It buds, in sober sadness, Too soon for me, too soon for me.

My second winter's over, Alas! and I, alas! and I Have no accepted lover: Don't ask me why, don't ask me why.

'Tis not asleep or idle That love has been, that love has been; For many a happy bridal The year has seen, the year has seen; I've done a bridemaid's duty, At three or four, at three or four; My best bouquet had beauty, Its donor more, its donor more.

My second winter's over, Alas! and I, alas! and I Have no accepted lover: Don't ask me why, don't ask me why.

His flowers my bosom shaded One sunny day, one sunny day; The next, they fled and faded, Beau and bouquet, beau and bouquet.

In vain, at ball and parties, I've thrown my net, I've thrown my net; This waltzing, watching heart is Unchosen yet, unchosen yet.

My second winter's over, Alas! and I, alas! and I Have no accepted lover: Don't ask me why, don't ask me why.

They tell me there's no hurry For Hymen's ring, for Hymen's ring; And I'm too young to marry: 'Tis no such thing, 'tis no such thing.