The servants most reluctantly withdrew,
But list’ning on the stairs contrived to linger;
For Ellen, gazing round with eyes of blue,
At last the features of her parent knew,
And summoning her breath and vocal pow’rs,
“Oh, mother!” she exclaimed—“Oh, is it true—
[Pg 315]
Our dear Lorenzo”—the dear name drew show’rs—
“Ours,” cried the mother, “pray don’t call him ours!”
“I never liked him, never, in my days!”
[“Oh yes—you did”—said Ellen with a sob,]
“There always was a something in his ways—”
[“So sweet—so kind,” said Ellen, with a throb,]
“His very face was what I call a snob,
And, spite of West-end coats and pantaloons,
He had a sort of air of the swell mob;
I’m sure when he has come of afternoons
To tea, I’ve often thought—I’ll watch my spoons!”
“The spoons!” cried Ellen, almost with a scream,
“Oh cruel—false as cruel—and unjust!
He that once stood so high in your esteem!”
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