Near nine! how the passers despise me,
They smile at my anguish, I think;
And even the sentinel eyes me,
And tips that policeman the wink.
Ah! Kate made me promises solemn,
At eight she had vow’d to be mine;
While waiting for one at this column,
I find I’ve been waiting for nine.
O Fame! on thy pillar so steady,
Some dupes watch beneath thee in vain:
How many have done it already!
How many will do it again!
THE FOUR SEASONS
Two wayward imps, all smiles or tears,
With large round eyes of ceaseless wonder,
Small pitchers with extensive ears,
And fingers prone to urchin plunder.
Two whisp’ring lovers—blissful pair!
Is he the rogue? or hath she trick’d him?
Unless he dupes his mistress there,
The chances are, he’ll fall a victim.
Two toiling ones of sober age
(Their bet with Care a losing wager);
They own, though now so very sage,
They might have been a trifle sager!
Two frail old wretches, sick and sad,
Yet sore dismayed lest Death should take them,
—Come, hang it, things, though passing bad,
Are not so bad as some would make them:
For, like yon clock, when twelve shall sound,
The call these poor old souls obeying,
Together shall their hands be found,
An earnest they are humbly praying!