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A PRESSING INVITATION.

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

O DO come to our ball, dearest Charley!

We depend on you; all the girls say

That you 've really not treated us fairly,

For the Dean will not know you 're away.

Fond fancy brings back in my day-dreams

All the fun that we had, dear, last year;

But all that I now have to say seems

To put your not coming past fear.

I am not now jealous of Carry. O,

Her castle of air had a fall!

I know you 're a gay young Lothario,

But, Charley, you 'll come to our ball!

You 'll see your pert friend, little Alice,

And all your old flames from our school:

I assure you I bear them no malice;

I 'm sixteen, and not such a fool.

But I hope you won't mention that "Parker's,"

Or talk about wine and cigars,

For mamma said your friends were all "larkers,"

And is going to lock up papa's.

Of initiations and hazing don't speak;

Brother Harry, you know, is so small

He can't go (they said so last week).

Come and talk to papa at our ball!

You write you are "grinding" at college,

Acting, reading, and playing foot-ball.

I 'm sure you will pick up some knowledge

If you practise your fool in our hall,

Where we all daily practise "the Boston"

On a floor which is smoother than glass;

The old waltz, an art voted 'lost one,'

We don't dance, and Lancers a farce.

So, Charley dear, send me an answer;

No excuse, if you please, sir, at all.

I was chaffing, - you know you 're a dancer;

Lead the German with me at my ball!

R. W. C.

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