The _nine_ they discard me, I'm not of _their_ train,
They entreatingly beg, "I'll ne'er woo them again;"
But I'll brave their displeasure, and e'en write to _you_
A few lines of doggrel, then rhyming adieu.
My errors do "wink at," for hosts you'll descry,
And spare all rebuff, and the keen critic's eye.
I appreciate all of your calm country life,
And feel you are happy as mother and wife;
Surrounded by taste, and _the friend_ so refined,
Who with sterling good sense, loves the delicate mind;
Who with _you_ can admire the "bird on the wing,"
With _you_ welcome back the return of the spring;
Enjoying the promise of fruits and sweet flowers,
With music to cheer and beguile evening hours;
Then _long_, very long, may such hours be given--
They whisper content, and the foretaste of heaven.
I was born in the city, the city's my home,
Yet oft in the country with pleasure I roam;
For _there_, I confess, the heart finds repose
In its pleasures and sorrows, which _here_ it ne'er knows.

_There_ no fashion, no nonsense, intrude on your walk,
But rational moments of rational talk,
Asserting that soiries, with jewels and dress,
Make a very small part of life's happiness.
Ah! this I believe, most _sincerely_ I do,
And sympathize freely, most truly with you.
Now Kossuth is coming, pray what's to be done?
No pageant to welcome, to children no fun?
Some "turn a cold shoulder," and look with disdain,