YOU’LL come to our Ball;—since we parted, | |
| I’ve thought of you more than I’ll say; | |
| Indeed, I was half broken-hearted | |
| For a week, when they took you away. | |
| Fond fancy brought back to my slumbers | 5 |
| Our walks on the Ness and the Den, | |
| And echoed the musical numbers | |
| Which you used to sing to me then. | |
| I know the romance, since it’s over, | |
| ’T were idle, or worse, to recall; | 10 |
| I know you’re a terrible rover; | |
| But Clarence, you’ll come to our Ball! | |
| |
| It’s only a year, since, at College, | |
| You put on your cap and your gown; | |
| But, Clarence, you’re grown out of knowledge, | 15 |
| And changed from the spur to the crown: | |
| The voice that was best when it faltered | |
| Is fuller and firmer in tone, | |
| And the smile that should never have altered— | |
| Dear Clarence—it is not your own: | 20 |
| Your cravat was badly selected; | |
| Your coat don’t become you at all; | |
| And why is your hair so neglected? | |
| You must have it curled for our Ball. | |
| |
| I’ve often been out upon Haldon | 25 |
| To look for a covey with pup; | |
| I’ve often been over to Shaldon, | |
| To see how your boat is laid up: | |
| In spite of the terrors of Aunty, | |
| I’ve ridden the filly you broke; | 30 |
| And I’ve studied your sweet little Dante | |
| In the shade of your favourite oak: | |
| When I sat in July to Sir Lawrence, | |
| I sat in your love of a shawl; | |
| And I’ll wear what you brought me from Florence, | 35 |
| Perhaps, if you’ll come to our Ball. | |
| |
| You’ll find us all changed since you vanished; | |
| We’ve set up a National School; | |
| And waltzing is utterly banished, | |
| And Ellen has married a fool; | 40 |
| The Major is going to travel, | |
| Miss Hyacinth threatens a rout, | |
| The walk is laid down with fresh gravel, | |
| Papa is laid up with the gout; | |
| And Jane has gone on with her easels, | 45 |
| And Anne has gone off with Sir Paul; | |
| And Fanny is sick with the measles,— | |
| And I’ll tell you the rest at the Ball. | |
| |
| You’ll meet all your Beauties; the Lily, | |
| And the Fairy of Willowbrook Farm, | 50 |
| And Lucy, who made me so silly | |
| At Dawlish, by taking your arm; | |
| Miss Manners, who always abused you | |
| For talking so much about Hock, | |
| And her sister, who often amused you | 55 |
| By raving of rebels and Rock; | |
| And something which surely would answer, | |
| An heiress quite fresh from Bengal; | |
| So, though you were seldom a dancer, | |
| You’ll dance, just for once, at our Ball. | 60 |
| |
| But out on the World! from the flowers | |
| It shuts out the sunshine of truth: | |
| It blights the green leaves in the bowers, | |
| It makes an old age of our youth; | |
| And the flow of our feeling, once in it, | 65 |
| Like a streamlet beginning to freeze, | |
| Though it cannot turn ice in a minute, | |
| Grows harder by sudden degrees: | |
| Time treads o’er the graves of affection; | |
| Sweet honey is turned into gall; | 70 |
| Perhaps you have no recollection | |
| That ever you danced at our Ball! | |
| |
| You once could be pleased with our ballads,— | |
| To-day you have critical ears; | |
| You once could be charmed with our salads— | 75 |
| Alas! you’ve been dining with Peers; | |
| You trifled and flirted with many,— | |
| You’ve forgotten the when and the how; | |
| There was one you liked better than any,— | |
| Perhaps you’ve forgotten her now. | 80 |
| But of those you remember most newly, | |
| Of those who delight or enthrall, | |
| None love you a quarter so truly | |
| As some you will find at our Ball. | |
| |
| They tell me you’ve many who flatter, | 85 |
| Because of your wit and your song: | |
| They tell me—and what does it matter?— | |
| You like to be praised by the throng: | |
| They tell me you’re shadowed with laurel: | |
| They tell me you’re loved by a Blue: | 90 |
| They tell me you’re sadly immoral— | |
| Dear Clarence, that cannot be true! | |
| But to me, you are still what I found you, | |
| Before you grew clever and tall; | |
| And you’ll think of the spell that once bound you; | 95 |
| And you’ll come—won’t you come?—to our Ball! | |
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