The ladies-some rouged, some a little pale—
Met the morn as they might. If fine, they rode,
Or walk'd; if foul, they read, or told a tale,

Sung, or rehearsed the last dance from abroad;
Discuss'd the fashion which might next prevail,
And settled bonnets by the newest code,
Or cramm'd twelve sheets into one little letter,
To make each correspondent a new debtor.

For some had absent lovers, all had friends.
The earth has nothing like a she epistle,
And hardly heaven-because it never ends.
I love the mystery of a female missal,
Which, like a creed, ne'er says all it intends,
But full of cunning as Ulysses' whistle,
When he allured poor Dolon:-you had better
Take care
what you reply to such a letter.

Then there were billiards; cards, too, but no dice ;-
Save in the clubs no man of honour plays ;—
Boats when 'twas water, skating when 'twas ice,
And the hard frost destroy'd the scenting days:
And angling, too, that solitary vice,

Whatever Izaak Walton sings or says:

The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet
Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it.

With evening came the banquet and the wine;
The conversazione; the duet,

Attuned by voices more or less divine

(My heart or head aches with the memory yet).
The four Miss Rawbolds in a glee would shine;
But the two youngest loved more to be set
Down to the harp-because to music's charms
They added graceful necks, white hands and arms.

Sometimes a dance (though rarely on field days,
For then the gentlemen were rather tired)

Display'd some sylph-like figures in its maze;

Then there was small-talk ready when required;
Flirtation-but decorous; the mere praise

Of charms that should or should not be admired.
The hunters fought their fox-hunt o'er again,
And then retreated soberly-at ten.

The politicians, in a nook apart,

Discuss'd the world, and settled all the spheres:
The wits watch'd every loophole for their art,
To introduce a bon-mot head and ears;
Small is the rest of those who would be smart,

A moment's good thing may have cost them years Before they find an hour to introduce it ;

And then, even then, some bore may make them lose it.

But all was gentle and aristocratic

In this our party; polish'd, smooth, and cold,

As Phidian forms cut out of marble Attic.

There now are no Squire Westerns as of old;

And our Sophias are not so emphatic,

But fair as then, or fairer to behold.

We have no accomplish'd black guards, like Tom Jones, But gentlemen in stays, as stiff as stones.

They separated at an early hour ;

That is, cre midnight-which is London's noon :
But in the country ladies seek their bower
A little earlier than the waning noon.

Peace to the slumbers of each folded flower—

May the rose call back its true colour soon! Good hours of fair cheeks are the fairest tinters, And lower the price of rouge-at least some winters.

CAPTAIN PATON.

JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART.

OUCH once more a sober measure, and let punch and tears

be shed,

For a prince of good old fellows that alack-a-day is dead, A prince of worthy fellows, and a pretty man also, That has left the Salt-market in sorrow, grief, and wo; Oh, we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!

His waistcoat, coat, and breeches, were all cut off the same web,
Of a beautiful snuff-colour, or a modest genty drab,

The blue stripe in his stocking round his neat slim leg did go,
And his ruffles, of the cambric fine, were whiter than the snow;
Oh, we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!

His hair was curl'd in order at the rising of the sun,

In comely rows and buckles smart that round his ears did run,

In front there was a toupee, that some inches up did grow,

And behind there was a long queue that did o'er his shoulders flow; Oh, we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!

And whenever we foregather'd he took off his wee three cockit,
And he proffer'd you his snuff-box, which he drew from his side-pocket,

222

And on Burdett or Bonaparte he'd make a remark or so,
And then along the plainstones like a provost he would go;
Oh, we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!

In dirty days he picked well his footsteps with his rattan,

Oh! you ne'er could see the smallest speck on the shoes of Captain Paton;

And on entering the coffee-room at two, all men would know,

They would see him with his Courier in the middle of the row;
Oh, we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!

Now and then upon a Sunday he invited me to dine
On a herring and a mutton chop, which his maid dress'd very
There was also a little Malmsey, and a bottle of Bourdeaux,
Which between me and the Captain pass'd nimbly to and fro;
Oh, I ne'er shall take pot-luck with Captain Paton no mo!

fine,

Or, if a bowl was mention'd, the Captain he would ring,
And bid Nelly to the West Port run, and a stoup of water bring ;
Then he would mix the genuine stuff, as they made it long ago,
With limes, that on his property in Trinidad did grow;
Oh, we ne'er shall taste the like of Captain Paton's punch no mo!

Then all the time he would discourse so sensible and courteous,
Perhaps talking of last sermon he heard from Dr. Porteous,
Or some little bit of scandal about Mrs. So-and-so,
Which he scarce could credit, having heard the con but not the
Oh, we ne'er shall hear the like of Captain Paton no mo!

pro;

And when the candles were brought forth, and the night was fairly

setting in,

He would tell some fine old stories, about Minden field or Dettingen,
How he fought with a French major, and dispatch'd him at a blow,

While the blood ran out like water on the soft grass below;
Oh, we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!