by Mrs. Gore [Catherine Gore].
Originally published in Ainsworth's Magazine: A Miscellany of Romance (Chapman and Hall) vol.4 #4 (Apr 1843).
April!—whose gentle voice reprieves
The flying fox, when budding leaves
Are seen the hawthorn trees on,
Scared by thy violet-scented gale,
My lord and lady start, per rail,
To London for the Season!
Arrived in Grosvenor Square, my lord
Is heard to mutter,—"'Pon my word,
What with the Chartists' treason,—
The Income-tax,—the Anti-League,—a
Frightful earthquake in Antigua,—
'Twill be a precious Season!
"For olive-branches, shooting forth
At home, abroad, the east, the north,
Laud we the gods our knees on;
But if no levées crowd St. James's,
The peace that seals our Indian claims is
No Godsend to the Season!
"While falling thus the price of stocks is,
His French Play stalls, or Opera boxes,
Who can reflect with ease on?
But that I hate to make a fuss,
My own seat in the Omnibus
I'd vacate for the Season!
"But why upon retrenchment ponder?
Her ladyship sits planning yonder
Fêtes without rhyme or reason,—
Concerts and banquets,—Weippert,—Gunter,—
All that the wildest pleasure-hunter
Squanders upon the Season!
"Though ne'er did national distress
So grimly on our notice press,
As all the world agrees on;
I doubt if Vouillon, Laure, or Dévy,
Will make her bills a doit less heavy
In catering for the Season!
"And why promote in parliament
Commercial treaties, to augment
Imported goods the fees on,
If Lyons silks and Flanders lace
Be indispensable to grace
The beauties of the Season?
"Her chariot, launch'd two years ago,
Now grown old-fashion'd,—snobbish,—slow,—
No longer seems to please! On
Every new turn-out of Barker's,
She frets, lest it should charm the park, as
The crack one of the Season!
"Upon a 'perfect lady's horse'
Her heart is set;—her mare, of course,
'Tis now her cue to sneeze on;—
Oh! that ye would transport, ye Fates,
Both Stanhope Street and Grosvenor Gates
To Somnauth—for the Season!
"When by a scene I trust I've cowed her,
She answers me by rattling louder
Her grand-piano keys on;
Hinting, 'twixt every waltz of Strauss,
The Commons is the only house
To prose in—in the Season!
"To let or sell, some few months hence,
This 'Capital Town Residence,'
Some pretext I must seize on;
For what between the times and her,
Neither my means nor character
Will stand another Season!"
So grumble lords of high degree,
While I submit to Destiny,
Nor comment her decrees on;
A fly upon the wheel of Fate,
The whole round world is my estate,—
The whole year round—my Season!