For "the Family is gone, Sir,"—not a soul is left in Town.
South to Switzerland they hurry, to explore each snowy fell;
North to Scotland's moors and forests, where the grouse and red-deer dwell;
Carlsbad, Homburg, Trouville, Norway, soon their jaded eyes will view;
For Society is speeding "to fresh woods and pastures new."
Everyone is gone or going,—everyone, that is, one knows,—
And the "Great Elections'" Season fast is drawing to its close.
Never surely was a poorer; such dull dinners, so few balls,
Such an Epsom, such an Ascot, or so many empty stalls.
Gone the Season, with its dances, with its concerts and its fêtes,