My friends are all flitting away,
And I murmured, as homeward I wended
From Goodwood, that last weary day,
Will no one invite me, I wonder,
To join them in shooting their moor,
Or shall I be left here to ponder,
While my chances get fewer and fewer?
Lord H. has gone sailing at Cowes,
And Carrie is bathing at Brighton,
And Charlie’s gone North with his spouse,