Aunt Dorothys Lecture

Come, go and practise-get your work-

Do something, Nelly, pray.

I hate to see you moon about

In this uncertain way!

Why do you look so vacant, child?

I fear you must be ill.

Surely you are not thinking of

That Captain Cameron still?

Ah, yes-I fear’d so! You may blush;

I blush for you, my dear;

And it is scarce a week ago

Since Gerald brought him here-

The day he fell in the hunting-field,

And his pretty horse was lamed.

O child-and with your bringing up!

You ought to be ashamed.

Last night I saw you watching him,

And you danced with him thrice;

You turn’d quite red when he spoke to you-

Such manners are not nice.

You, Nelly Gray, should not be seen

(I don’t wish to be harsh)

Running wild, like the servant-girls,

For a red coat and moustache.

Not that he isn’t a gentleman

From spur to shako-brim-

I know good blood when I see it-yes,

I will say that for him.

He does not swagger, nor lisp, nor flirt-

Has none of those vulgar ways;

And he does not talk like a stable-boy,

As the fashion is nowadays.

In fact, I admire him very much-

My dear, you need not fret-

I do; he’s very different from

The rest of Gerald’s set.

He’s very handsome, certainly-

I don’t mind saying so.

He reminds me a bit of your uncle, when

I met him long ago.

He had a silky, long moustache

Of just that golden shade;

And broad Greek brows, with a tint of bronze,

That Indian suns had made.

He was a soldier, too, you know-

As big and strong and tall:

He’d just come home when I saw him first

At Lady Talbot’s ball.

I remember when we were introduced;

By stealth I look’d him o’er-

Such haughty, indolent, gentle eyes,

I never saw before!

I felt so strange when he look’d at me;

I cannot tell you why-

But I seem’d to feel he was mine, to keep

And love, till I should die.

‘Twas very odd-in a moment, too,

Before I knew his name!

But, Nelly-O how the world was changed

And brighten’d, when he came!

I was so restless all that night;-

I did not want to see,

I felt where he moved about the room

While he was away from me.

I was jealous-I could not help it,

Although I struggled hard-

Of the other girls, whose favour’d names

Were written on his card;

They were so rich, and I was poor;

They were so grandly dress’d,

And I so dowdy; and yet, and yet,

I thought he liked me best.

The last long hour he danced with them,

And oh I miss’d him so!

And then I heard our carriage call’d,

And I knew that I must go.

A big lump rose up in my throat

That I could hardly bear;

But, passing through the vestibule,

I saw him standing there.

I knew not where he came from,

But I felt no surprise

When he look’d down from his stately height

With his grave and quiet eyes,

And held his hand for a mute good-night

That said all words could say;-

Ah, love! he made me happy then

For ever and for aye.

Well, well,-but this is nonsense;

How I am running on!-

His golden hair grew thin and grey,

And now he’s dead and gone.

There, go and dress for dinner, child;

It’s getting late, you see;

And-perhaps I’ll ask young Cameron

If he’ll come in to tea.

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Poems in English 

• Stepping Westward by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• Star-Gazers by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• Stanzas by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• Stanzas Written In My Pocket Copy Of Thomson’s “Castle Of Indolence” by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• Spanish Guerillas by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• Sonnet: On seeing Miss Helen Maria Williams weep at a tale of distress by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• Sonnet: “It is not to be thought of” by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• Song Of The Wandering Jew by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• Song Of The Spinning Wheel by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• Simon Lee: The Old Huntsman by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• Siege Of Vienna Raised By Jihn Sobieski by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• She Was A Phantom Of Delight by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• September, 1819 by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• September 1815 by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• September 1, 1802 by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• Scorn Not The Sonnet by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• Say, What Is Honour?–‘Tis The Finest Sense by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• Ruth by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• Rural Architecture by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth

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