Classic Poem

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!