They tell me you've "landed" a lover

(Don't pout at the slang, dear, 'tis chic),

Before your first Season is over,

Before I have left you a week.

I learned the good news through my mother.

Who is he? I wish I could guess.

If it's dear Lord Fitz-Frumpington's brother,

My own Angelina, say "Yes."

Tres chère, we know Fortune and Fashion

Are sensible girlhood's sole guides,

Smart maidenhood ridicules passion,

And sentiment calmly derides.

I gave you "Bel Ami" as token

That we were not victims of "glow;"

You gave me your vow—is it broken?

My own Angelina, say "No!"

We vowed, dear, no matter at what age,

By Sentiment not to be hooked,

Or cheated by Love in a Cottage,

Or Shepherds enchantingly crook'd.

Too well, dear, we know modern men's tone,

Of "briar" the pipes which they blow.

Say, have you gone soft à la Shenstone?

My own Angelina, say "No!"

Remember the cynic romances

We read in that Devonshire glen!

We are not the slaves of girl-fancies,

We've learned far too much about Men!

'Tis nice, with your head on his shoulder,

To whirl through the waltz with Frank Lowe,

But should poor Adonis grow bolder,

My own Angelina, say "No!"

You know without wealth and a carriage

Life's just a prolonged fit of spleen,

So don't let me mourn o'er your marriage

With any poor Brown, Jones, or Green.

You swore mere romance should not thrill you,

Nor gold-less good looks make you glow;

And you will not go back on it—will you?

My own Angelina, say "No!"

We're parted, but sympathy's fetter

Unites us, I'm sure of it, still.

I read your last laughable letter,

And see you are steering with skill.

True Love is all fiddlededee, love,

Full coffers count only, below.

If he's not what your husband should be, Love,

My own Angelina, say "No!"

If he's over polite in his wooing,

If his heart is too plainly a-throb,

If he scarce seems aware what he's doing,

If he speaks with a blush or a sob;

If he is not "dead nuts" on his dinner,

If his voice or his spirits run low;

If he seems getting paler or thinner,

My own Angelina, say "No!"

If he gives too much time to his Tennis,

Neglectful of dear L. S. D.,

If he chatters of Whistler and Venice,

If he cares about Five o'clock Tea;

If he's not sometimes rude or capricious

(All swells who have money are so),

Such signs are extremely suspicious;

My own Angelina, say "No!"

If he shows a contempt for "the City,"

And drops little jeers about Jews,

If he talks of "the People" with pity,

Or rails at the Sweaters as "screws,"

These things prove a "popular leaning,"

And popular leanings are low;

Soft heart, and slack purse, are their meaning—

My own Angelina, say "No!"

If he prates about Property's duties

In diction at all Gladstonese,

If he's down on Society Beauties,

If he has not a stare that can freeze;

If he does not abuse Foreign Powers,

And vote all philosophy slow,

If he's one of the time's "big Bow-wowers,"

My own Angelina, say "No!"

He must walk like a Cit in his glory,

Of Money the true modern test,

He must be—yes, of course, dear—a Tory,

(As partis that party are best)

If he knows not the old Carlton's portal,

Then—unless you've a Duke for a beau—

I beg you—for girls are but mortal—

My own Angelina, say "No!"

Don't bother about his extraction

Although there's a charm in good birth,

But Wealth yields life's sole satisfaction,

So find out, dear girl, what he's worth!

He may be but an oil-striking Yankee,

Eccentric in manners and dress,

But, if he has tin worth a "thankee,"

My own Angelina, say "Yes!"