TO A DÉBUTANTE.
Fair Maiden of unclouded brow
Who, gaily, 'mid the gay the gayest,
To England, Home, and Duty now
Oblation payest.
Gay seeming,—if the milliner's
Can cheer, the florist's homage sightly;
And yet, unless my fancy errs,
Thou shudderest slightly.
Is it a sigh for childhood's bliss,
A dread of what is coming, come what
May matrimonially—or is
It draughty somewhat?
St. James's corridors are long
As Art, as Life thy raiment brief is
(Except the train, of course)—and strong
Mamma's relief is.
In vulgar phrase, "Your mother knows
You're out," at length. Such triumphs too dear
Are sometimes purchased. I suppose
She fidgets you, dear.
"The Countess!—bow, child, to the Earl!—
Those terrible HYDE PARKES! Their posies
Look quite too vulgar; cut them, girl.
How red your nose is!
"Quick! take the powder-puff, my love—
Not on your bouquet or your hair now!—
Don't bungle so; you'll drop that glove—
Please take more care now.
"You stoop like any bourgeoise chit.
Who'd think you educated highly?
No, not so stiff. Do blush a bit,
And simper shyly."
Ah! Maiden fair of cloudless air.
This kind of thing is hardly pleasant.
Indeed, I'm thankful not to wear
Thy shoes at present!