“Oh yes! he is in Parliament;
He’s been returning thanks;
You can’t conceive the time he’s spent
Already on his franks.
He’ll think of nothing, night and day,
But place, and the Gazette:”—
No matter what the people say,—
You won’t believe them yet.
“He filled an album, long ago,
With such delicious rhymes;
Now we shall only see, you know,
His speeches in the Times:
And liquid tone and beaming brow,
Bright eyes and locks of jet,
He’ll care for no such nonsense now:”
Oh! don’t believe them yet!
“I vow he’s turned a Goth, a Hun,
By that disgusting Bill;
He’ll never make another pun;
He’s danced his last quadrille.
We shall not see him flirt again
With any fair coquette;
He’ll never laugh at Drury Lane.”—
Psha!—don’t believe them yet.
“Last week I heard his uncle boast
He’s sure to have the seals;
I read it in the Morning Post,
That he has dined at Peel’s;
You’ll never see him any more,
He’s in a different set:
He cannot eat at half-past four:”—
No?—don’t believe them yet.
“In short, he’ll soon be false and cold,
And infinitely wise;
He’ll grow next year extremely old,
He’ll tell enormous lies;
He’ll learn to flatter and forsake,
To feign and to forget:”—
O whisper—or my heart will break—
You won’t believe them yet!