Guest poem sent in by Peter Kiff
(Poem #1919) The Last Quadrille
Not yet, not yet, it's hardly four Not yet, we'll send the chair away Mirth still has many smiles in store And love has fifty things to say. Long leagues the weary sun must drive Ere pant his hot steeds o'er the hill The merry stars will dance till five One more quadrille, one more quadrille! 'Tis only thus, 'tis only here That maids and minstrels may forget The myriad ills they feel or fear Ennui, taxation, cholera, debt. With daylight, busy cares and schemes Will come again to chafe or chill This is the fairyland of dreams One more quadrille, one more quadrille! What tricks the French in Paris play And what the Austrians are about And whether that tall knave Lord Grey Is staying in or going out. And what the House of Lords will do At last with that eternal bill, I do not care a rush, do you? One more quadrille, one more quadrille! Me book don't sell, me play don't draw, Me garden gives me only weeds. And Mr Quirk has found a law, Deuce take him, in me title deeds. Me aunt has scratched her nephew's name From that sweet corner of her will. Me dog is dead, me horse is lame. One more quadrille, one more quadrille! Not yet, not yet, it is not late. Don't whisper so to sister Jane. Your brother I am sure will wait, Papa will go to cards again. Not yet, not yet, your eyes are bright, Your step is like a wood nymph's still. Oh no! You can't be tired tonight. One more quadrille, one more quadrille!
Winthrop Mackworth Praed was a nineteenth century Tory MP and Old Etonian. He was a brilliant scholar who delighted in creating verse which parodied the follies and foibles of his day. I love his dashing style and sparkling wit. The unflagging vivacity of his verse goes on and on just like the never-ending quadrilles. Peter [Links] Wikipedia entry: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Winthrop_Mackworth_Praed