To turn to graver matters still,
How much we see of sad self-will!
Miss Scrope, with brilliant views in life,
Would be a poor lieutenant’s wife.
A lawyer has her Pa’s good word,
Her Ma has looked her out a Lord,
What would they not all give to be
Like our united family!
By one congenial taste allied,
Our dreams of bliss all coincide,
We’re all for solitudes and cots,
And love, if we may choose our lots.
As partner in the rural plan
Each paints the same dear sort of man;
One heart alone there seems to be
In our united family.
One heart, one hope, one wish, one mind,—
One voice, one choice, all of a kind,—
And can there be a greater bliss—
A little heav’n on earth—than this?
The truth to whisper in your ear,
It must be told!—we are not near
The happiness that ought to be
In our united family!
Alas! ’tis our congenial taste
That lays our little pleasures waste—
We all delight, no doubt, to sing,
We all delight to touch the string,
But where’s the heart that nine may touch?
And nine “May Moons” are eight too much—
Just fancy nine, all in one key,
Of our united family!
The play—Oh how we love a play,
But half the bliss is shorn away;
On winter nights we venture nigh,
But think of houses in July!
Nine crowded in a private box,
Is apt to pick the stiffest locks—
Our curls would all fall out, though we
Are one united family!
In art the self-same line we walk,
We all are fond of heads in chalk,
We one and all our talent strain
Adelphi prizes to obtain;
Nine turban’d Turks are duly sent,
But can the royal Duke present
Nine silver palettes—no, not he—
To our united family.
Our eating shows the very thing,
We all prefer the liver-wing,
Asparagus when scarce and thin,
And peas directly they come in,
The marrow-bone—if there be one—
The ears of hare when crisply done,
The rabbit’s brain—we all agree
In our united family.
In dress the same result is seen,
We all so doat on apple-green;
But nine in green would seem a school
Of charity to quizzing fool—
We cannot all indulge our will
With “that sweet silk on Ludgate Hill,”
No remnant can sufficient be
For our united family.
In reading hard is still our fate,
One cannot read o’erlooked by eight,
And nine “Disowned”—nine “Pioneers,”
Nine “Chaperons,” nine “Buccaneers,”
Nine “Maxwells,” nine “Tremaines,” and such,
Would dip into our means too much—
Three months are spent o’er volumes three,
In our united family.
Unhappy Muses! if the Nine
Above in doom with us combine,—
In vain we breathe the tender flame,
Our sentiments are all the same,
And nine complaints address’d to Hope
Exceed the editorial scope,
One in, and eight put out, must be
Of our united family!