Four o'clock.
Oh, DOLLY, dear DOLLY, I'm ruined for ever—
I ne'er shall be happy again, DOLLY, never!
To think of the wretch—what a victim was I!
'Tis too much to endure—I shall die, I shall die—
"My brain's in a fever—my pulses beat quick—
I shall die or at least be exceedingly sick!
Oh! what do you think? after all my romancing,
My visions of glory, my sighing, my glancing,
This Colonel—I scarce can commit it to paper—
This Colonel's no more than a vile linen-draper!!
'Tis true as I live—I had coaxt brother BOB so,
(You'll hardly make out what I'm writing, I sob so,)
For some little gift on my birthday—September
The thirtieth, dear, I'm eighteen, you remember—
That BOB to a shop kindly ordered the coach,
(Ah! little I thought who the shopman would prove,)
To bespeak me a few of those mouchoirs de poche,
Which, in happier hours, I have sighed for, my love—
(The most beautiful things—two Napoleons the price—
And one's name in the corner embroidered so nice!)
Well, with heart full of pleasure, I entered the shop.
But—ye Gods, what a phantom!—I thought I should drop—
There he stood, my dear DOLLY—no room for a doubt—
There, behind the vile counter, these eyes saw him stand,
With a piece of French cambric, before him rolled out,
And that horrid yard-measure upraised in his hand!
Oh!—Papa, all along, knew the secret,' is clear—
'Twas a shopman he meant by a "Brandenburgh," dear!
The man, whom I fondly had fancied a King,
And, when that too delightful illusion was past,
As a hero had worshipt—vile, treacherous thing—
To turn out but a low linen-draper at last!
My head swam around—the wretch smiled, I believe,
But his smiling, alas, could no longer deceive—
I fell back on BOB—my whole heart seemed to wither—
And, pale as a ghost, I was carried back hither!
I only remember that BOB, as I caught him,
With cruel facetiousness said, "Curse the Kiddy!
"A stanch Revolutionist always I've thought him,
"But now I find out he's a Counter one, BIDDY!"
Only think, my dear creature, if this should be known
To that saucy, satirical thing, Miss MALONE!
What a story 'twill be at Shandangan for ever!
What laughs and what quizzing she'll have with the men!
It will spread thro' the country—and never, oh! never
Can BIDDY be seen at Kilrandy again!
Farewell—I shall do something desperate, I fear—
And, ah! if my fate ever reaches your ear,
One tear of compassion my DOLL will not grudge
To her poor—broken-hearted—young friend, BIDDY FUDGE.
Nota bene—I am sure you will hear, with delight,
That we're going, all three, to see BRUNET to-night.
A laugh will revive me—and kind Mr. COX
(Do you know him?) has got us the Governor's box.
[1] The column in the Place Vendôme.
[2] Miss Biddy's notions of French pronunciation may be perceived in the rhymes which she always selects for "Le Roi."
[3] LE ROI, who was the Couturière of the Empress Maria Louisa, is at present, of course, out of fashion, and is succeeded in her station by the Royalist mantua-maker, VICTORINE.
[4] It is the brother of the present excellent Restaurateur who lies entombed so magnificently in the Cimetière Monmartre.