Lines to his Cousin
ON THE NEW YEAR,
By a Westminster Boy.
Time rolls away! another year
Has rolled off with him; hence ’tis clear
His lordship keeps his carriage
A single man, no doubt;—and thus
Enjoys himself without the fuss
And great expense of marriage.
His wheel still rolls (and like the river
Which Horace mentions) still for ever
Volvitur et volvetur.
In vain you run against him; place
your fleetest filly in the race,—
Here’s ten to one he’ll beat her.
Of all he sees, he takes a tithe,
With that tremendous sweeping scythe,
Which he keeps always going;
While every step he takes, alas!
Too plainly proves that flesh is grass,
When he sets out a mowing.
And though his hungry ravenous maw
Is crammed with food, both dress’d and raw,
I’ll wager any betting,
His appetite has ever been
Just like his scythe, sharp-set and keen,
Which never wanted whetting.
Could you but see the mighty treat
Prepared, when he sits down to eat
His breakfast or his dinner,—ah,
Not vegetable—flesh,—alone,
But timber, houses, iron, stone,
He eats the very china.
When maidens pray that he will spare
Their teeth, complexion, or their hair,
Alas! he’ll never hear ’em;
Grey locks and wrinkles hourly show,
What Ovid told us years ago,
Ut Tempus edax rerum!
In vain, my dearest girl, you choose
(Your face to wash) Olympic dews;
In vain you paint or rouge it;
He’ll play such havoc with your youth,
That ten years hence you’ll say with truth
Ah Edward!—Tempus fugit!
The glass he carries in his hand
Has ruin in each grain of sand;
But what I most deplore is,
He breaks the links of friendship’s chain,
And barters youthful love for gain:
Oh, Tempora! oh, Mores!