The Separation

He’s gone, dear Fanny!--gone at last--
We’ve said good-bye--and all is over;
’Twas a gay dream--but it is past--
Next Tuesday he will sail from Dover.
Well! gentle waves be round his prow!
But tear and prayer alike are idle;
Oh! who shall fill my album now?
And who shall hold my pony’s bridle?

Last night he left us after tea--
I never thought he’d leave us--never;
He was so pleasant, was’nt he?
Papa, too, said he was so clever.
And, Fanny, you’ll be glad to hear--
That little boy that looked so yellow,
Whose eyes were so like his--my dear,
Is a poor little orphan fellow!

That odious Miss Lucretia Browne,
Who, with her horrid pugs and Bibles,
Is always running through the town,
And circulating tracts--and libels;
Because he never danced with her,
Told dear Mamma such horrid scandal
About his moral character,
For stooping, just to tie a sandal!

She said he went to fights and fairs--
That always gives Papa the fidgets;
She said he did not know his prayers--
He’s every Sunday at St. Bridget’s!
She said he squeezed one’s waist and hands
Whene’er he waltzed--a plague upon her--
I danced with him at Lady Eland’s--
He never squeezed me--’pon my honour!

His regiment have got the route,
(They came down here to quell the riot,
And now--what can they be about,
The stupid people are so quiet:)--
They say it is to India, too,
If there I’m sure he’ll get the liver!--
And should he bathe--he used to do--
They’ve crocodiles in every river.

There may be bright eyes there--and then!
(I’m sure I love him like a brother;)
His lute will soon be strung again,
His heart will soon beat for another.
I know him well! he is not false--
But when the song he loves is playing--
Or after he has danced a waltz--
He never knows what he is saying.

I know ’twas wrong--’twas very wrong--
To listen to his wild romancing;
Last night I danced with him too long,--
One’s always giddy after dancing:
But when he begged me so to sing,
And when he sighed, and asked me, “Would I?”
And when he took my turquoise ring,
I’m sure I could not help it, could I?

Papa was lecturing the girls,
And talked of settlements and rentals;--
I wore a white-lace frock--and pearls--
He looked so well in regimentals!
And just before we came away,
While we were waiting for the carriage,
I heard him, not quite plainly, say
Something of Blacksmiths--and of marriage.

He promised, if he could get leave,
He’d soon come back--I wonder can he?--
Lord Hill is very strict, I b’lieve;--
(What could he mean by Blacksmiths, Fanny?)
He said he wished we ne’er had met,
I answered--it was lovely weather!--
And then he bade me not forget
The pleasant days we’d passed together.

He’s gone--and other lips may weave
A stronger spell than mine to bind him;
But bid him, if he loves me, leave
Those rhymes he made me love, behind him;
Tell him I know those waywards strings
Not always sound to mirthful measures;
But sighs are sometimes pleasant things,
And tears from those we love are treasures.

Tell him to leave off drinking wine,--
Tell him to break himself off smoking,--
Tell him to go to bed at nine,--
His hours are really quite provoking.
Tell him I hope he won’t get fat,--
Tell him to act with due reflection;--
Tell him to wear a broad-leaf hat,
Or else he’ll ruin his complexion.

Tell him I am so ill to-day,--
Perhaps to-morrow I’ll be better;---
Tell him before he goes away
To write me a consoling letter:
Tell him to send me down that song
He said he loved the best of any,--
Tell him I’m sure I can’t live long,--
And--bid him love me,--won’t you, Fanny?