MRS. A.'S AT HOME.
An awful night! I do believe it's snowing!
Who from his "ain fireside" would wish to roam?
Only a fool would go—and yet I'm going—
To Mrs. A.'s At Home!
The burden of At Homes! The bore of dressing!
I must be wielding razor, brush, and comb
(The snow has almost stopped—Come, that's a blessing!)
For Mrs. A.'s At Home.
Why am I going? Well, to me the reason
Looms large and clear as Paul's cathedral dome:
The reason's—Nancy, whom I met last season
At Mrs. A.'s At Home.
Hi, hansom! Off we go! Although sweet Nancy
Since then has vanished like a fairy gnome,
Yet I shall see her (sweet conceit) in fancy
At Mrs. A.'s At Home.
"Thankee, my lord!"—he's earned that extra shilling,
We've come along, the horse is flecked with foam—
Slowly upstairs I go, the rooms are filling
At Mrs. A.'s At Home.
Then—why, good heavens! No! It isn't fancy!—
"Can it be you? I heard you were in Rome.
Just fancy meeting you"—the real Nancy!—
"At Mrs. A.'s At Home!"
To-night and Nancy—rhyme excuses fiction—
Might, if I sang them, fill a ponderous tome:
A perfect night! I breathe a benediction
On Mrs. A.'s At Home!
