The Last Quadrille -- Winthrop Mackworth Praed

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

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

The Talented Man -- Winthrop Mackworth Praed

(Poem #1868) The Talented Man Dear Alice! you'll laugh when you know it, -- Last week, at the Duchess's ball, I danced with the clever new poet, -- You've heard of him, -- Tully St. Paul. Miss Jonquil was perfectly frantic; I wish you had seen Lady Anne! It really was very romantic, He *is* such a talanted man! He came up from Brazenose College, Just caught, as they call it, this spring; And his head, love, is stuffed full of knowledge Of every conceivable thing. Of science and logic he chatters, As fine and as fast as he can; Though I am no judge of such matters, I'm sure he's a talented man. His stories and jests are delightful; -- Not stories or jests, dear, for you; The jests are exceedingly spiteful, The stories not always *quite* true. Perhaps to be kind and veracious May do pretty well at Lausanne; But it never would answer, -- good gracious! Chez nous -- in a talented man. He sneers, -- how my Alice would scold him! -- At the bliss of a sigh or a tear; He laughed -- only think! -- when I told him How we cried o'er Trevelyan last year; I vow I was quite in a passion; I broke all the sticks of my fan; But sentiment's quite out of fashion, It seems, in a talented man. Lady Bab, who is terribly moral, Has told me that Tully is vain, And apt -- which is silly -- to quarrel, And fond -- which is sad -- of champagne. I listened, and doubted, dear Alice, For I saw, when my Lady began, It was only the Dowager's malice; -- She *does* hate a talented man! He's hideous, I own it. But fame, love, Is all that these eyes can adore; He's lame, -- but Lord Byron was lame, love, And dumpy, -- but so is Tom Moore. Then his voice, -- *such* a voice! my sweet creature, It's like your Aunt Lucy's toucan: But oh! what's a tone or a feature, When once one's a talented man? My mother, you know, all the season, Has talked of Sir Geoffrey's estate; And truly, to do the fool reason, He *has* been less horrid of late. But today, when we drive in the carriage, I'll tell her to lay down her plan; -- If ever I venture on marriage, It must be a talented man! P.S. -- I have found, on reflection, One fault in my friend, -- entre nous; Without it, he'd just be perfection; -- Poor fellow, he has not a sou! And so, when he comes in September To shoot with my uncle, Sir Dan, I've promised mamma to remember He's only a talented man! -- Winthrop Mackworth Praed

This is an unexpectedly funny poem - I started off smiling, but had to laugh
out loud before I was done. It's hard to write a humorous poem where the
intent is that the reader laugh at the narrator; it's even harder when the
main element of the poem's humour is that indefinable quality, "tone of
voice". But Praed not only manages to thread the poem through with a
delightful vein of sly humour, he makes the whole thing look wonderfully
effortless - indeed, I was almost tempted to dismiss this as a funny but
essentially trivial poem, until I started to think about just how chancy a
thing humour can be. It's still a trivial poem, mind you, but it's also an
impressive one.

That humour of this sort is indeed tricky to handle is unfortunately
revealed with a jar in the last verse, which has a definite "I have no idea
how to end this" feel to it. The supplied punchline is superficially funny,
but it is a tired, cliched sort of humour, and one inconsistent in tone with
the rest of the poem. Happily, it doesn't detract from the rest of the poem -
there is a slight sense of letdown at the end, but, at least for me, the
lingering impression is entirely positive.

martin

Wikipedia entry:
  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Winthrop_Mackworth_Praed
  [Praed seems to have led an interesting and active life]