Young blossom in her boudoir fading:
She warbled Handel; it was grand;
She made the Catalani jealous:
She touch’d the organ; I could stand
For hours and hours to blow the bellows.
She kept an album, too, at home,
Well fill’d with all an album’s glories;
Paintings of butterflies, and Rome,
Patterns for trimmings, Persian stories;
Soft songs to Julia’s cockatoo,