1829.] 
[ 367 ] 
THE RACE BALL. 
The Races, dear Martha, are over; 
You can’t think how gay we have been ; 
I hate you for living at Dover— 
I like so to tell what I’ve seen: 
*Tis better by half, love, than writing ; 
We both, you know, doat on a chat ; 
It saves one the bore of inditing, 
My letters are always so flat. 
However, no doubt you are dying 
To hear all the news of this week ; 
A truce, then, dear girl, to my sighing— 
I'll write, though I still long to speak. 
First, fancy our starting from London, 
Close pack’d in Pa’s new yellow coach ; 
(My Harry says I shall have one done 
Just like it, when I’m Mrs. Roach.) © 
Our party consisted of nearly 
The whole of our family squad ; 
My sisters were dress’d out so queerly, 
Folks thought us, I’m sure, very odd. 
As soon as we got to Southampton, 
Ma made us all dip in the sea ; 
I said that it cruelly cramped one; 
My father said, “ Fiddle-de-dee !” 
We daily attended the Races, 
And always had plenty of beaux ; 
The course, though, was thronged with plain faces, 
And people whom nobody knows. 
We dined the first day at the Major’s, 
And afterwards had a quadrille ; 
The men talked of nothing but wagers, 
Their noise made Mamma very ill. 
To me it was vastly amusing— 
The horses have such funny names! 
(I hope you don’t think of refusing 
The offer you had from Sir James.) 
Perhaps you don’t care about betting, 
Or bolting, or jockeying, dear ; 
You see that I am not forgetting 
To tell you of all I’ve heard here. 
The next night, though terribly rainy, 
We all started off to the play ; 
The “ Hamlet” was rather a Zany— 
The farce was the “ Devil to Pay.” 
I dropp’d my pink shoe in a puddle, 
_ Our coach was so far from the door ; 
Conceive, too, the barbarous huddle 
Of seven, when room but for four ! 
