“I MUST COME OUT NEXT SPRING”

I MUST come out next Spring, Mamma,

I must come out next Spring;

To keep me with my Governess

Would be a cruel thing:

Whene’er I see my sisters dress’d

In leno and in lace,—

Miss Twig’s apartment seems to be

A miserable place.

I must come out next Spring, Mamma,

I must come out next Spring;

To keep me with my Governess

Would be a cruel thing.

I’m very sick of Grosv’nor Square,

The path within the rails;

I’m weary of Telemachus,

And such outlandish tales:

I hate my French, my vile Chambaud;

In tears I’ve turn’d his leaves;

Oh! let me Frenchify my hair,

And take to Gigot sleeves.

I must come out next Spring, Mamma,

I must come out next Spring;

To keep me with my Governess

Would be a cruel thing.

I know quite well what I should say

To partners at a ball;

I’ve got a pretty speech or two,

And they would serve for all.

If an Hussar, I’d praise his horse,

And win a smile from him;

And if a Naval man, I’d lisp,

“Pray, Captain, do you swim?”

I must come out next Spring, Mamma,

I must come out next Spring;

To keep me with my Governess

Would be a cruel thing.

Thomas Haynes Bayly.