Why, y-e-s—‘twas rather late last night;
In fact, past six this morning.
My rascal valet, in a fright,
Awoke, and gave me warning.
But what of that?—I’m very young.
And you’ve “been in the Oven,” or,
Like me, you’re wrong’d by rumour’s tongue,
So—pray don’t tell the Governor.1 1. The author is aware there exists a legitimate rhyme for Porringer, but believes a match for governor lies still in the terra incognita of allowable rhythm.
I dined a quarter after seven,
With Dashall of the Lancers;