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CALLS.

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

SEE the dandy with his calls, -

Lovely calls!

What a world of happiness his charming card forestalls!

How they tickle, tickle, tickle,

All the ladies on-his list,

While the stars that oversprinkle

All the heavens seem to twinkle

At the thought of those he missed.

Keeping time, time, time,

In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the striking of the clock, that so regularly falls,

To end those calls, calls, calls, calls,

Calls, calls, calls,

To end the flirting and the smirking of the calls.

See the tender youth's first calls, -

Longer calls!

How very much embarrassment that twirling thumb recalls,!

Though through the balmy air of night

They will predict a sweet delight!

And from all those pink-edged notes

Received this noon,

What hope so sweetly cherished floats

To the love-worn maid that listens while she gloats

On the moon!

O, during one of those "elegant" calls,

What a mass of compliments that bashful caller drawls!

How he bawls!

How it appalls

A mother's ears! How glad he crawls

Into his carriage, - for other halls,

Where he 'll be shaking with the fright of making

So many calls, calls, calls,

Those calls, calls, calls, calls,

Calls, calls, calls, -

So many charming, though alarming New-Year's calls.

See the lover with his calls! -

Wretched calls!

What a world of bother to Romeo befalls!

In the silence deep of night

In the silence deep of night

He does n't think of them with fright;

'T is, after all, but a care,

He can only swear, swear,

At the bore!

But there's no need of now concealing that he has a frantic burning

Of the heart - in irritation - that his soul is madly turning,

And he's learning, learning, learning,

With desperate determining

And a resolute endeavor,

Now - now to sit or never

By the side of his Lenore.

But the calls, calls, calls,

How long the letter that he scrawls

About the bore!

How they weary, bother, tire,

In their ever-wild desire

To please the fair receivers still a little more.

Yet the ear it fully knows,

By the twanging

And the clanging,

How the effort ebbs and flows;

And on the ear distinctly falls,

In the jangling

And the wrangling

How in talking each one bawls,

In the laughing and the chaffing of the entertaining calls,

Of the calls,

Of the calls, calls, calls, calls,

Calls, calls, calls,

In the clamor and the clangor of the calls.

But the man who makes no calls, -

Not a call!

What a world of comfort true he enjoys withal!

In the silence of the night

How we shiver with affright,

At the melancholy calling of an eligible son!

For no sound more sweet can float,

From the wit within his throat,

Than a pun!

And the people, - ah, the people, -

Not content to call a leetle

On their flame,

And who, calling, calling, calling,

Always telling each the same,

Feel a glory to see falling

Into every stand their name.

They are neither man nor woman,

They are neither brute nor human, -

They are fools;

Society, their king who rules,

And the tools, tools, tools,

Tools,

Of those that receive all these calls.

Yet in this foolish world there's often senseless grieving

At the thought of not receiving

New-Year's calls.

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