There’s no Romance in that!
I wish I ne’er had learn’d to read,
Or Radcliffe how to write;
That Scott had been a boor on Tweed,
And Lewis cloister’d quite!
Would I had never drunk so deep
Of dear Miss Porter’s vat;
I only turn to life, and weep—
There’s no Romance in that!
No Bandits lurk—no turban’d Turk