LAYS OF THE “BEAU MONDE.”

I saw at Lord George’s rout,

Amid a blaze of ton;

And such a tournure ne’er “came out”

For Maradon Carson!

For who that mark’d that sylph-like grace

That full Canova hip,

That robe of rich Chantilly lace,

That faultless satin slip,

Could doubt that she would be the belle

To make a thousand waistcoats swell?

I saw her seated by my lord,

As joli comme un ange;

She took some pate perigord.

And after that blanc mange:

A glass of Moyse’s pink champagne

Lent lustre to ses eux.

And then—I heard a Grisian strain—

It was her sweet adieux;

And I—my friend the butler sought,

To slake with stout each burning thought.