Music there was in every part; And almost always you could hear A song or septet by Mozart, And not a note of Meyerbeer. There story-tellers had a way Of being neither dull nor long But, like Voltaire or Mérimée, Were rarely sweet and never strong. Perrons, parterres and green pelouses Abounded; walks of turf and sand; And restaurants like La Pérouse; Fiddles and horns, and no Jazz Band. There were no bounders and no bores, No reach-me-downs, no general stores, No clubs, no colonels, not a hearty Good fellow there to spoil a party, No district-visitor or pastor, And not a sign of Lady Astor. There were no 'cinemas', no groups Of shop boys, no colonial troops, No one who hit straight from the shoulder, And not a season-ticket holder; There was nor creditor nor debtor, There was not in that pleasant land A soul who wished to make it better, All were content to understand Their happiness; nay, what is more, No lady wanted for her lover That kind of smutty, solemn bore, Who sick with genius, must uncover For our souls' good his nasty sore: Believe me there did not exist A single, small coprologist. So simple-minded were the ladies In that old-fashioned Sibyl's Hades. Alas I pure joy the fates forbid. Alas! that poet's not an ass Who has it that an _aliquid_ _Amari_ rises in the glass Almost invariably when we Suppose we've cheated destiny. Van Branbourg, and his British pup too, Observed that every Friday night, No matter what they might be up to, The partners of their dear delight Slipped off at twelve, upon the stroke, And left them puzzling out the joke, As best they might, till Monday morning; When back their ladies came more kind, More sweet, than ever. But this warning Served to unsettle Branbourg's mind. He had a Lutheran soul. What malice, What mischief might they be about? He tracked them to the Sybil's palace, And there it was he found them out. From Friday night to Monday morning, He found these artless, frolick gadders, Who left their lovers without warning, Lay with their queen, asleep like adders; Not in a peaceful girlish doze, But serpentlike and comatose.[5] "Pish," said the squire, "here are no evils." The German said, "These girls are devils." His northern soul was deeply stirred, He said--"My man, it's time we went," Which good squire Pons thought quite absurd, And said so. "Pons, d'you know we've spent Here," groaned his chief, "three hundred days, Abounding in lascivious ways. Pack up, and say 'good-bye' my man." Thus spoke the Prussian Knight, Van Bran. The ladies, as you may suppose, Were _navrées, marrieés_, quite upset. They had to let them go because Such was the formal bargain. Yet They used all arts against all rules, As Dido did. The gentlemen, Much like Aenæas, looked like fools, And acting now as he did then, First sighed, then blustered, lastly went: Such is the heroic temperament.