March
by A.T.
Originally published in Belgravia (John Maxwell) vol.2 #5 (Mar 1867).
To-day is my last with the hounds
This year,
As to-morrow for town we are starting:
How sad is the note the horn sounds
To hear,
For our meet will be more like a parting!
The breakfast at eight, and the drive
To cover,
Trot the roses out on my cheeks;
With eyes, too, so fresh I arrive,
A lover
Might dream of their light for weeks.
But in town, after dancing at balls
All night,
Which are only delusions and snares,
One rises in time to make calls,
Or write
Invitations to crowd Papa's stairs.
Though waltzing I cannot deny
Affords
A run which brings with it delight,
A spin o'er the fields in full cry
Tries chords
Which Tinney could never excite.
Then farewell to bullfinches and larks!
Farewell
To the jump in and out of the lane!
My mare and I can't like the Parks
As well,
Where one scarcely dare loosen a rein.