Next morning, drest, and breakfast done, Heart beating with desire, The hall door bell was loudly rung, Enough to break the wire. I thought I should have died with fright, Up came our servant Anne, A gentleman, Miss, waits below, He is such a nice young man. Almost I’d sunk, ’twixt hope and fear, I wish’d I was afar, Guess my surprize him now to hear Conversing with Mamma. Such language elegant he used, He did her heart trepan, She said she no objection had, He was such a nice young man. Now, stop and dine with us, you must, I will not take denial. Excuse me ma’am, this visit first, Is far too great a trial. Well, call again whene’er you please, For visit here you can, I’ll call again to-morrow, ma’am, Said my very nice young man. From th’ house he was scarcely out of sight, When, from the lower rooms, A servant maid came in a fright, And cried, He’s stole the spoons! Ah! fetch him back, Mamma she cried, Off ran our footman Dan, Who brought him back, we found the spoons, Yes, upon this nice young man. A caution, ladies, give I must, The moral I well know, ’Tis never the appearance trust, Of any dashing beau. For this is what I should have done, When to notice he began, But, who’d have thought he was a thief? He was such a nice young man. [Illustration] _MRS. MONDAY._ ONE Sunday I went out, and as I walk’d up Holborn Hill, (I like to be particular,) the streets were very muddy, When just about the half way up, quite shock’d I stood stock still; A lady slipt down flop before me, fat and plump, and ruddy. She was in the kennel sprawling, To me for assistance calling, Quick was I pulling, hauling; She did wish to shun day. The mud had spoil’d her Sunday dressing, “Dear,” she said, “’tis quite distressing. Lawk! I am a pretty mess in; Look,” said Mrs. Monday. As soon as she recover’d, she return’d her thanks so free, And in my ears no voice was e’er so sweet, tho’ she did tumble; She said, that when she started, she was going out to tea, But stopt by this unfortunate and unlucky tumble. Mobs of people now surrounded, She and me were both confounded; Low lived jokes and jeers abounded, Tho’ it was a Sunday. Heeding not their taunts and titters, I ask’d her if my taste would fit her’s. Would she have some brandy-bitters, “I will,” said Mrs. Monday.