NOT yet, not yet; it's hardly four; Not yet; we'll send the chair away; Mirth still has many smiles in store, And love has fifty things to say. Long leagues the weary Sun must drive, Ere pant his hot steeds o'er the hill; The merry stars will dance till five; One more quadrille,--one more quadrille! 'Tis only thus, 'tis only here That maids and minstrels may forget The myriad ills they feel or fear, Ennui, taxation, cholera, debt; With daylight busy cares and schemes Will come again to chafe or chill; This is the fairy land of dreams; One more quadrille,--one more quadrille! What tricks the French in Paris play, And what the Austrians are about, And whether that tall knave, Lord Grey, Is staying in, or going out; And what the House of Lords will do, At last, with that eternal Bill, I do not care a rush,--do you? One more quadrille,--one more quadrille! My book don't sell, my play don't draw, My garden gives me only weeds; And Mr. Quirk has found a flaw-- Deuce take him--in my title-deeds; My Aunt has scratched her nephew's name From that sweet corner in her will; My dog is dead, my horse is lame; One more quadrille,--one more quadrille! Not yet, not yet; it is not late; Don't whisper it to sister Jane; Your brother, I am sure, will wait; Papa will go to cards again. Not yet, not yet. Your eyes are bright, Your step is like a wood-nymph's, still. Oh no, you can't be tired, to-night! One more quadrille,--one more quadrille! |