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Mandall na

7. Romney Sculp

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“ She's all my fancy painted her.”- Alice Gray.

The curta in rises ! lovely Woman view!
Angel in all points..... All?---yes, all, save two!
And what these are l'll leave you now to guess ;
Backslidings never shall my pen express.
But perhaps I'd better state them too in verse,
Fancy ne'er failing to make failings worse
And always Woman's !-'tis no doubt that she
So seldom fails, that failings hers must be.
The points I mean are, Foxhunting and Fun!!
The last embracing more than meets the sun-
Such as Blind Hooky, betting, heavy-wet !
’Cross country galloppes ! with the fav’rite Pet,
Et-ceteras too prolific here to name,
And therefore left to thy crack trumpet-Fame!
I never yet could reason with the Fair
Partial to bunting roe-buck, fox, or hare,
Nor drive to earth the thought-(mais entre nous)-
Barring the steed—that there must be a screw
Loose somewhere-where I don't

presume to

There are so many loose screws now-a-day.
Oh! if they must sport-with the “ long bow” try,
The strawberry bed, the violet bank, or I-
vied wall, in search of tom-tits, alias grouse
When hunting, hunt cockchafers or a mouse.
Sigh they for longer chase, for nobler game,
Run bag” rabbit; if so be he's tame !
Or perhaps a "drag" would suit them......stay the doubt
Gowns are so brief-suppose they “ let them out!
But understandings now are so display'd
In old and young !-wife, widow, matron, maid !
'Tis quite distressing to the passing eye
To see how merit passes heedless by:
Tho' not, oh! not from want of being seen,
For there's enough-more than enough, 1 ween.
This age is so MacAdam'd, and its ways
So very pleasant-quite a treat such days
As this is now—to get a little sun!
One's always sorry when the day is done.
Yet with the night you'd miss full many a lark,
And meet more falls than, may be, in the dark :
Falls too resounding, causing oft a stain-
Falls, from which many ne'er might rise again.


But mark me, fair ones, well ye ought to know,
What'er the leg, Love never looks so low:
And Cupid, but to prove a lad of sense,
Here echoes, “ Honi soit qui mal y pense!
Which means, they manage matters best in France,

Where such things are not met with ..... at a dance !


Belles and Blue-stockings !--if the men you'd please,
Study consistency below the knees;
The order of The Garter's not so rare
As it was once-court not a nation's stare!
Or if your nether garments still must be
The happy medium 'twixt the toe and knee,
Prove to the world how far, in spite of scorn,
Breeches..... (excuse me)..... breeches now are worn!

Oh! if you knew how easily men tire
Of what at every step they may admire,
Your gowns a little longer you'd endure,
With less of leg of understanding more!

FITZREYNARD could not on the ringlet gaze,
But throbb’d his heart as oft in happier days;
While calmer, purer, better thoughts would thrill
Warm thro' that breast, fond proofs of feeling still.
Then ere he went, a golden chain he threw
Round Laura's neck, and looked his last adieu :
No word again was spoken.....all can tell
How eyes they love best look their last farewell.
Three years pass'd on, and these two met again ;
But oh! how changed from what they once had been !
She, in his absence, dreamt of only him-
Thought's fond perspective-all beyond was dim.
But mid that gay, that dissipated set,
Too soon he ceased e'en Laura to regret.
When they next met, how calmly did his eye
Glance on that form, o'er which he oft would sigh ;
And when her trembling hand he coldly took,
Not in the least did his belie that look.
Meantime her manner how restrain'd-her air
How alter’d. ....oh! with what peculiar care
She tried to smile thro' grief-and unconcern'd seem there.

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Who has not felt the rankling of the heart,
When fain he'd hide in smiles its thrilling smart ?
Who has not felt at times the scalding tear
Float round the eye-ball, but must not appear
Upon the burning cheek..... the bursting heart to cheer ?
Such, such were Laura's feelings-such the hour
When Love is felt with overwhelming power.
Silent as Woman's love is ever kept,
She sigh’d in secret, and in secret wept.
Oh! none can tell that agonizing pain,
Save those who've lov'd like her--and oh! have loved in vain !

When that fond hope of Woman-Love-is past,
As sets yon sun, so sinks her heart at last.
To them that Hope the all of feeling here
Once cherish'd... lost.....say, what hath earth to cheer
Life's waning pilgrimage?


Woman, when once she loves, nought can controul.
She loves with all her heart, her mind, her soul.
Her very feeling, thought, and wish are there :
Once she may love thus ; but such love is rare,
And oh ! all other earthly love transcends:
Through life it lasts, and to the tomb descends.
Many a bright and beauteous form will fade
Dim grows the eye as pensive grows the maid:
The roses from her cheek are fading now,
Care's sable wreath surrounds her pallid brow;
Her heart, though beating, still is breaking fast ;
The lily's hue is o'er her features cast:
Like it she seeks the valley's lonely shade,
Lest by her look her heart should be betray'd,
There will she linger, there in silence weep;
Silent as is thy love, O Woman! still how deep!
Such feelings cannot last-like evening brecze,
Her life is gliding 'neath those gloomy trees:
No more the valley's loved retreat she gains;
Her strength is weakness, yet she feels no pains ;
Patient ’mid all her woes, oh! who can view
That wasting form, that eye of waning blue,
That look so calm, so soft that bosom's sigh,
Nor mourn that Woman's love, and love like this, should die !

A charm o'er that frail form when slumbering flows,
Like Angel tasting this world's calm repose :
Daily those tottering limbs will grow more weak;
Strength fails her fast-but lo! upon that cheek
The rose again appears, again has bloom'd-
Pause, pause......'tis but the first fruits of the tomb:
Death, ere it plucks such flow'ret from its sphere,
Gives one long lingering look to those who lov'd it here!
As fades the rose-bud, blighted ere it bloom'd,
So sinks thy blighted heart, O Woman, to the tomb !

O Woman! loveliest, fondest, fairest, best
Of Earth's creation ! let me here invest
My numbers with thy name......
Thro’ this world's wanderings, smiles, remorse, and fears,
Brightly thy form on Memory's path appears :
Man's Guardian Angel thou, 'mid every doom:
His firmest friend in death, disgrace, and gloom :
His only comfort when life's pleasures fail,
His watchful nurse, when languishing and pale
Upon his couch he lies......oh! then thy care
Is deepest felt-its fondest proof is there!
His one companion, faithful to the end,
Whose every wish but to his welfare tend.
I've known thee striving with vain hopes and fears-
Have seen thy smile, and oh ! have felt thy tears;
Have view'd thee sinking 'neath life's cankering care,
Have heard thy sigh when struggling with despair ;

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