  I MUST come out next Spring, Mamma, I must come out next Spring; To keep me with my Governess Would be a cruel thing: Whene’er I see my sisters dress’d In leno and in lace,— Miss Twig’s apartment seems to be A miserable place. I must come out next Spring, Mamma, I must come out next Spring; To keep me with my Governess I’m very sick of Grosv’nor Square, The path within the rails; I’m weary of Telemachus, And such outlandish tales: I hate my French, my vile Chambaud; In tears I’ve turn’d his leaves; Oh! let me Frenchify my hair, And take to Gigot sleeves. I must come out next Spring, Mamma, I must come out next Spring; To keep me with my Governess Would be a cruel thing. I know quite well what I should say To partners at a ball; I’ve got a pretty speech or two, And they would serve for all. If an Hussar, I’d praise his horse, And win a smile from him; And if a Naval man, I’d lisp, “Pray, Captain, do you swim?” I must come out next Spring, Mamma, I must come out next Spring; To keep me with my Governess Would be a cruel thing. Thomas Haynes Bayly. |
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