THE SONG OF THE FLIRT.
WITH bosom weary and worn,
With eyelids painted and red,
A lady, just from a Duchess's ball,
Sat on the side of her bed.
Her sapphires were gleaming and rich,
And faultless her lace and her skirt,
And yet with a voice of dolorous pitch,
She sang the "Song of the Flirt."
"Flirt, flirt, flirt!
When the lunch is scarcely begun!
Flirt, flirt, flirt!
Till the sickening supper is done
Ball and dinner, and rout,
Rout, and dinner, and ball,
Till I long for my bed to rest my head,
And in a wakeless slumber to fall."
"Flirt, flirt, flirt!
Till the room begins to swim;
Flirt, flirt, flirt,
Till the eyes are starting and dim:
Beam, and falsehood, and frown,
Frown, and falsehood, and beam,
Till over my lyings I fall asleep,
And flirt my fan in a dream!"
"Flirt, flirt, flirt!
My labour never ends;
And what are its wages? all true men's scorn,
And a dreary dearth of friends.
That shattered life—and this broken heart—
And yon smile that shrines a sneer;
And a house so blank, my cousin I thank
For sometimes calling here!"
"Oh! but to scent the breath
Of an honest man on my brow—
To feel the throb of a worthy arm
Winding around me now;
For only one brief hour
To feel as the pure can feel,
To staunch with the power of hearty love
The wounds that refuse to heal!"
With bosom weary and worn,
With eyelids painted and red,
A woman, fresh from a great duke's ball,
Knelt by the side of her bed.
Her rubies were ruddy and rich,
And perfect her bodice and skirt—
She looked like a splendid and tigerly witch,
And yet with a voice of dolorous pitch
She sang the "Song of the Flirt."
F. C. W., Exeter College, Oxon.
College Rhymes (T. Shrimpton and Son), Oxford, 1872.