Classic Poem

A MID the reams of new joint schemes
With which the press abounds,
To give us ease, cheap milk and cheese,
And turn our pence to pounds;
No patriot yet has torn the net
That social life enthrals,
Denounc'd the crime of killing Time,
And banished Morning Calls.

When, spurning sports, in Rufus' courts,
Grim Law coif-headed stalks;
'Twixt three and four when merchants pour
Round Gresham's murmuring walks;
When, with bent knees, our kind M.P.'s
Give up e'en Tattersall's
On bills to sit, — 'tis surely fit
We give up Morning Calls.

On clattering feet up Regent-street
To Portland-place you roam,
Where Shoulder-tag surveys your nag,
And answers — " Not at home. "
Thus far you win; but, if let in,
The conversation drawls
Through hum-drum cheeks — what mortal seeks
Aught else at Morning Calls?

Your steed, all dust, you heedless trust
To some lad standing idle;
But while you stay he trots away,
And pawns your girth and bridle.
Your case you state; the magistrate
Cries — " Why not go to stalls?
When loungers meet, let horses eat,
And have their Morning Calls. "

To say that town is emptier grown,
That Spanish bonds look glum,
That Madame Pasta's gone at last,
And Ma'amselle Garcia's come;
To say you fear the atmosphere
Is grown too hot for balls,
Is all that they can have to say
Who meet at Morning Calls.

While Fashion's dames clung round St. James,
The deed might soon be done;
But now when ton's so bulky grown
She claims all Paddington,
From Maida-hill to Pentonville,
The very thought appals, —
I really will bring in a bill
To banish Morning Calls!