I think of yon, love, every moment,— 
When I have a moment to spare — 
But the beaux, that are buzzing around me, 
All claim of attention a share. 
There’s dashing, distingue Lord Harry, 
And wicked, but witty Sir John;— 
’Tis said they’re determined to marry:— 
Don’t you think—you had better come on? 
I miss you so much ,—when alone, love; 
But I’ve one consolation, you’ll hear: 
I practice duetts with—my own love!— 
My cousin, young Clarence de Vere. 
His manly voice chords with mine finely, 
You’d think they would melt into one; 
He sings “Mia Cara” divinely; 
He wants to know— when you’ll come on! 
Your letters are truly delightful!— 
That is—what I’ve read of them, dear!— 
But old Father Time has grown spiteful; 
He flies like a fairy king here. 
I’ve learned the new waltz with Lord Harry; 
I’m reading Rousseau with Sir John; 
How very impassioned his style is! 
Mamma thinks—you’d better come on. 
Don’t hurry your business for me, sir— 
Don’t trouble yourself in the least— 
I’m glowing with health, as you’ll see, sir; 
My appetite’s lately increased; 
I’ve quite cured that troublesome cough, love, 
For I ride every day—with Sir John— 
And I’m not sure but I shall— go off ‘ love, 
By the time—you conclude to come on! 
F. S. O. 
